Greyjoy alla Breve (SI)
by ShaiGar
Summary: Mirrored story from SpaceBattles - Volume 1 from AndrewJTalon. An SI takes over Theon Greyjoy when he's brought to Winterfell as a hostage, and proceeds to bring the Industrial Revolution to Westeros, with the contents of the internet in his mind.
1. I, II

**Mirror Notes:** This story can be found at https colon slash slash forums dot spacebattles dot com threads/asoiaf-greyjoy-alla-breve-si.352019/ written by AndrewJTalon  
At the forum, it has non-canon omakes that have not been included in this story. Volume 1 is almost complete as of 2016-07-11 (Australian Western Standard Time).

 **Further Mirror Notes:** You will find sections in this story listed as Omakes. They are actually part of the story, however, they were not written by AndrewJTalon, they were written by other writers, sometimes at Andrews behest, sometimes just inspired by the story, and Andrew kept them, listing them as part of the story, as they were well written, didn't interfere with the story, and had elements he'd later go on to add into the main storyline. Several of the Omakes, such as " **Keep it simple, stupid** ", and " **Meanwhile, in Slaver's Bay** ", have had sequels written as chapters. Don't get it twisted, if it's here, it's part of the story.

 **I: Reflections on War, Part 1**

Most stories about people ending up in a fantasy world and saving it have happy endings. And while my story hadn't ended, yet, there was a hell of a lot of bad things that still happened no matter how hard I tried to prevent it. From the day I ended up in Theon Greyjoy's body, an eight year old hostage/foster son at Winterfell, I had struggled to change the future and make the world a better place. In that respect, I'm not too different from anyone else I suppose. And I had had many successes, make no mistake.

It had taken time for Ned Stark and Maester Luwin and dozens of other men to recognize my plans as more than child's fancies, but when they did pay off I was given more and more. I had industrialized the North-Ned Stark had built watermill powered sawmills, textile plants, meat processing factories, and other industries powered by rivers to make the North prosper. I had used my name as a Greyjoy to welcome dissidents from the Iron Isles, and given Ned Stark the impetus to form a Fleet of the North. Maester Luwin was known far and wide for "inventing" canned foods, anti-biotics, vaccines to a few plagues, and other wonders from my fertile mind. Gunpowder had led to primitive dynamite, muskets, cannons, flintlock weapons and other marvels of technology that made the North fearsome indeed.

And people stayed people, stubborn and foolish. No one more than I.

The Night's Watch had cannons, muskets, scatter guns, grenades, land mines, flamethrowers... And they were still barely three thousand men. The Wildlings were still coming, and I couldn't very well tell them the White Walkers were returning. I'd look like a mad man... But now Wildlings were being killed, their bodies torn apart by Bolton shotguns for sport.

The Winterfell Granary threshing machines, that had ensured no one would starve in Winter ever again, had broken and I was sent out to look at it... The same day Bran Stark was shoved out a window. I couldn't save him, save the boy I had found a little brother in. One I shared views of the stars with through a telescope, and talked about the planets with. A boy who had such dreams, and I... I had failed to change his destiny.

Ned Stark had gone South to become Hand of the King. I had tried to come with him, but he had insisted I was indispensable to the North and had to stay. I had convinced him and his men to take pistols, gas grenades, and a few other precautions just in case... And Ned Stark still lost his head, though Arya had at least escaped. Sansa was still a prisoner to a monster king.

And now the War of the Five Kings was underway. I had at least managed to convince Robb Stark to cut off all lumber and other trade with the Iron Isles a few months beforehand, citing "secret issues". That would keep my father's conflicts limited, especially given the North's naval power. And we had managed to avoid dealing with Walder Frey entirely-The Fleet of the North allowed Robb Stark's armies to move about the Riverlands at will, and kept supplies flowing. Logistics was the key to any war, and expanding the North's trading fleet let us do that.

I had made a few changes, small, minor ones... And yet, here we still were: Ned Stark dead, Joffrey holding Sansa, Renly and Stannis fighting in the South, and Daenerys Targaryan in Essos, building her army. Three victories to the Young Wolf's name, Jaime Lannister our prisoner, but no closer to victory.

Maybe the North was better fed, better armed, and better prepared for the dark days to come... But the people in it had not changed. We had to end this war. We had to stop it, as quickly as possible, and turn our attention to the Wall. I had tried so hard to avert this conflict, this useless and destructive war... And I had failed.

All I could do then, was see just how much more I could get away with. Before the gods decided I'd pushed my luck too far.

Robb Stark, my brother and my king, was studying a map intently with the rest of his head bannermen in his tent. "He's been fighting a defensive war from Harrenhal," Robb said, pointing to that ancient ruin on the map. "Using the Mountain to raid and burn the Riverlands. He's content to keep that up, exhaust us..."

"We need to draw him out," I said bluntly. Brynden Tully looked over at Theon, and smiled.

"Aye, that we do Lord Greyjoy, but Tywin Lannister's not going to just come out for us," he said. "If he won't commit all his forces to a strike fer his son, what would he?"

I grimaced. "I don't know," I admitted, "but the longer the war goes on, the harder it gets. We can't afford any major sieges, Winter is coming."

"House Stark's words, but meaningless for us," Roose Bolton stated. I managed to look him in the eyes, no matter how much he made me want to look away and shudder. "And with your... Esteemed father raising havoc in the North-"

"He hasn't made landfall with any great host," I said earnestly. "And unless he can load up more timber on those longboats of his, he can't replace the ships we sink. And we are sinking a lot of them," I reminded Robb. My king nodded, and Bolton conceded the point with a shrug.

"Balon Greyjoy is a limp old man trying to relive his glory days," I said fiercely, "and it's only the War of Five Kings as a courtesy to that withered old cunt."

"Well said, yet you keep the name," Greatjon Umber said. I shrugged and smiled at Robb.

"Well, I'd like to take Stark, but I'll leave the timing on that to my King," I said. Robb smiled back. "Besides, I don't have a wolf."

"You don't have a kraken, either," Bolton noted. I scowled.

"That's because they'd be too much of a hassle to cart around on land," I emphasized. "Can you imagine having to tow that with me everywhere?"

"We'd laugh at you no less than whores do now," Lord Karstark jested, as everyone (including myself) laughed. Robb got his laughter under control and shook his head.

"Fact of the matter is though, Theon's right," Robb said. "We do need to end this conflict, and fast." He studied the map. "We could make raids into the Westerlands, draw him into a trap there-An assault on Casterly Rock would sting his pride fiercely. He sends the Mountain after us, we trap him around the Stone Mill and crush him."

I recalled the marriage Robb made with that Westerling girl, and while he was not beholden to Walder Frey, I was still reluctant to put my friend into such a position. Besides, I had sent a few of my people along with Catelyn Stark down to the Stormlands-Who would "innocently" suggest a marriage between Robb and Maergery Tyrell just in case something terrible happened to Renly. No, of course I wasn't expecting anything to happen but it would be a good thing to keep in mind, just in case, and by the way since Petyr Baelish was there why not bring up the idea with him and how happy it would make Catelyn...?

"We could," I agreed carefully, "but we'll have to make sure everyone's coordinated-One screw up and we're all fucked."

"Yer firesticks have been a great help on that front," Greatjon Umber said with a grin. "Why not let loose with 'em, right in the open field?"

I sucked in a deep breath. "Because while your knights and cavalry are well trained, disciplined soldiers, my Lord," I said, "the majority of the army armed with my firesticks are farmers, millers, iron workers, spinners and the like. The most shooting they've done before this war was of geese or deer, or the occasional shooting contest."

Ned Stark had sponsored many of those himself to promote the ownership of firearms. Many of the noble lords had objected, at first, but Ned Stark's commitment to being kind to the small folk had at least assuaged most of them that a rebellion was not inevitable. And those same houses had purchased many weapons of their own, just in case they didn't believe the Starks.

"They tore through the Lannister flank at Whispering Wood," Greatjon emphasized. I nodded.

"That we did," I said, "but that's because we were able to shoot from cover. Even with bayonets, without men at arms to protect them most of our musketeers will flee in the face of a charge."

"That is why I've focused on hit and run tactics with them," Robb said with a nod.

"We can use guns and hold our ground just fine!" Lord Karstark huffed.

"Yes, but the sheer majority of the army are smallfolk," I said. "And our tactics have to take that into account." I studied the map, and rubbed my chin. "Striking Casterly Rock is something Tywin Lannister would expect," I said. "He's betting on us doing that... But I'm thinking we need to try something more galling."

"And what would that be?" Bolton asked, tilting his head curiously. I smiled.

"We need to bring down the Mountain... We need to lure him into a trap. But it needs to be one of our own making-One that will decisively crush the Lannister army. We need a place that will let us bring all the fire down on them... And use our mines to the best advantage. We need to take the Golden Tooth, or circumvent it. We need to take Sarsfield. And we need to hit Oxcross, or even Lannisport itself to draw the Lannister forces into the mountains." I looked around at them. "A good avalanche launched by dynamite, and our troubles are over."

"Or you could bury our army just as easily as the Lannister army," Lord Karstark pointed out sourly. I grimaced.

"Well... Only if we weren't careful-"

"No avalanches," Robb said sternly. I sighed.

"You never let me have any fun..."

 **II: Our Knives are Sharp**

 _296 AC, Hornwood, The North  
_  
The fluttering of wings filled the air, released birds flapping frantically from the boxes they had been held in. Two shots rang out, and two birds fell as the crowd applauded.  
Standing on a wooden platform in the middle of an assemblage of tents and stands, Lord Ned Stark lowered his musket. He smiled out at the crowd of smallfolk and nobles alike. "Fire and steel form the bedrock of the New North," he spoke loudly. "And to that end, we bring our weapons in to learn, to trade, and to grow stronger together! Let the festival begin!"

Cheers greeted him, as the Warden of the North turned and stepped down the steps to the ground. I waited for him, Maester Luwin at my side, and Dan Greenstone at my other. Ned nodded to me with a smile.

"It still pulls to the left, even with two barrels," he said, handing the weapon to me. I sighed and shook my head, rubbing my bearded chin.

"Three years I've been trying to get this damn thing balanced," I muttered. Ned chuckled, and patted my shoulder.

"You've had a lot of other things on your mind," he said. "Mayhaps too much, Theon?"

I shrugged non-noncommittally as we walked through the crowd, smallfolk, merchants and nobles nodding and greeting us politely. "I feel like a shark," I said. "I can't stop or I will die."

"This is the third such Festival of Fire and Steel this year," Ned said, shaking his head. "I'm sure you can spare some time to relax...?"

"Gun ownership has surpassed five thousand souls, I think I should tend to that," I said.

"After visiting the Wall and putting cannons on the battlements yourself?" Maester Luwin asked, amused. I rolled my eyes.

All of this effort had been to get me to the Wall. To get cannons on top, and muskets in the hands of the Brothers, and flamethrowers at each castle. Primitive but functional. To get them there though, I had to sell them as an official means of clearing snow from the tunnels through the Wall and emergency heat supply.

Unofficially of course... Winter Was Coming. Ice Zombies would be upon us. And I'd handed an arsenal that would allow the Watch to conquer a small nation to a bunch of cuthroats, thieves, rapists and old men who were expected to be the first line of defense against the Others.

No wonder I couldn't relax.

A few ladies passed by, tittering and giggling at me. I shrugged, eyes still on the rifle... Until Lord Stark pulled it away. "Hey!"

"Go out, have some fun," Ned ordered. "Find Robb and Jon and go try to win Arya and Sansa prizes."

I gave him a wry smile. "They'll be winning all the prizes," I said honestly. Still, to argue with Ned Stark was... Well, I could do it when it came to almost anything else. When he put his best 'I'm concerned for your wellbeing' look on... Yeah, there was no defense against that.

Unlike the canon Theon, the prospect of getting a million different painful STDs had largely kept me celibate. No whoring away for this Theon Greyjoy, no. It was invention after invention, sawmill after sawmill, meeting after meeting. Fate of the world was at stake, it was hard to have fun.

It was hard... To let go.

So I turned and tried to make my way to the nearby tents where my foster brothers and sisters would be waiting...

"My Lord Stark, and my Lord Greyjoy," intoned an unpleasant voice. I froze and turned, to see Lord Stark eyeing Roose Bolton with polite caution. The lord of the Dreadfort stood there alone, a bit of candy flax in his hand. It was a baffling thing to see.

"Lord Bolton, I am pleased you made the trip," Lord Stark said, inclining his head slightly.

"The Festival is a recent tradition, but one I approve of," Bolton said, his expression not changing at all. "Such power demands strong leadership to keep it from being... Abused."

"Agreed," Ned said. "Would you join me for some wine, Lord Bolton?"

"I will join you for food and water, if you please my Lord," Bolton said with a nod, "I never drink. However," and here he turned to gaze at me. In the crowd, I felt utterly alone under those cold eyes. "I would beg for some time from Lord Greyjoy."

"Well, uh, certainly," I said politely, walking back to face him. "I'm always happy to help loyal members of the North!"

Bolton nodded. "A member of my household has made some... Breakthroughs in the thundersteel arts. So he claims, and so my maester agrees. However, the one who first invented them would be the best judge of the quality of his advances."

I shrugged modestly. "I only came up with some of the ideas, and got the manufacturing bit down," I said. "Maester Luwin did most of the hard work-"

"You are too modest, Theon," Luwin said with a gentle smile. "Take some credit! There's plenty to spare."

I nodded. "I'd love to help the member of your household with his invention. Where...?"

"Lord Greyjoy," spoke another chilling voice. I felt my heart clench like a fist was squeezing around it. I looked to the right, and saw him. He'd been so silent, so stealthy, I hadn't heard him. Maybe experimenting with explosives had dulled my hearing, but my instincts... Those flared.

For the person smiling at me with cold, gray eyes was Ramsay Snow... The Bastard of Bolton...

Ramsay spoke cheerfully as we walked, trailed by Dan (my squire, assistant and put upon gofur) and Myranda, whom I recognized from the show. I kept nodding to Ramsay's speech, trying to control my fear. Sure, I wasn't in his power... I wasn't a prisoner in a Dreadfort... But I would be a fool to trust Ramsay Snow any further than I could throw him.

"... All of this is... I'm trying to say, I deeply admire your work," he said. I nodded, taking deep breaths as we stopped in a small copse of trees. The festival was going on behind us, loud and comforting.

"Oh?" I asked. Ramsay smiled again, and my skin wanted to crawl.

"Oh yes... The textiles mill set up on the Weeping Waters... To see the spinning of the wool by those devices, like shiny metal spiders... Spinning their webs..." He smiled even more broadly. "And the... Flamethrower. The piston action... How you used a flange to keep the flames from blowing back-Ingenious!"

I nodded and shrugged. "I was inspired by the corpse of a crocodile," I said. "They have a palate that swings into place to keep them from breathing in water. I thought the same principle would apply to fire..."

Ramsay's eyes gleamed. "Indeed?" He asked. "I have not had a chance to dissect a crocodile... Tough, scaly things. Hard to cut... Hard to _slice."  
_

"Yes, well... Patience often grants us rewards," I said carefully. "And exploration in the pursuit of science... It justifies all our labors."

Ramsay nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes! That is what I like to say... To discover all the limits, and push _beyond_ them! That is the true path forward." He grinned a bit wider. "Yes... I knew I'd like you, my Lord."

"Please," I said with a somewhat forced smile, "call me Theon."

"Such familiarity, my Lord!" Ramsay chuckled. "Given to a... Natural Born son, such as myself-"

"Bah," I said, waving my hand. "Southern lords can wear their titles and lineages like prize mutts at a dog show. Here, I judge you based on what you do, not who your father was." I looked over at Dan, who had been looking in a bit of terror at Myranda. "Dan here was a miller's son. Now, he's my assistant. Keeps me on my toes, keeps things on track! Much of my success is due to him putting up with me."

Dan nodded wearily. "Indeed, my Lord."

"I see," Ramsay said. "Myranda too is my... Assistant," he said. "She shares a fascination with science, you see... A fervor I enjoy. Isn't that right, Myranda?"

"Yes it is," Myranda said with a sickly sweet smile. I immediately wished I had brought Arya along-She wasn't afraid of anyone or anything and she loved me dearly. Probably because I took her and Bran along when I tested explosives-That tends to win the loyalty of any child.

"Well! All this mutual admiration is going to go to our heads," I said, "why don't you show me what you've been working on?"

"Certainly, my Lo... Theon," Ramsay corrected himself. He turned to Myranda. "Myranda?"

Myranda stepped forward with a small crate. She set it on the ground, and opened it. Ramsay smiled, and reached into the pile of rags and cloth. I raised my eyebrow as he pulled out a standard, single-shot flintlock pistol. I'd made thousands of the things, no surprise Ramsay had one. I'd marketed them as "Thunderclouds", because... Well, everyone kept associating them with storms and fire so I'd rolled with it.

Give the people what they want and all.

"A standard pistol, my Lord," Ramsay said. "Effective at ranges of about a hundred yards, give or take. Reloading it is a laborious process."

I nodded at that. "It is," I admitted. "I've been working on more advanced models that are loaded from behind, possibly with a magazine of several shots, but the engineering is going slowly."

Ramsay nodded. "I too have toyed with similar ideas," he said. "Multiple barrels might be the way forward, but for now, I've contented myself with speeding up the reloading process." He pulled out a small tea bag from the crate, as Myranda lovingly handed him a bullet and the ramrod. "You are familiar with these?"

I nodded. "Yes, teabags. The Mollen papermill on the White Knife makes them."

It was a seemingly minor invention that I didn't think would gain a lot of popularity, but the moment they'd been traded to King's Landing, _everybody_ wanted tea bags. The Mollens had to open up two more mills just to keep up with the demand, to say _nothing_ of toilet paper and regular paper.

"Standard pistol, you load gun cotton, powder, and the ball," Ramsay said. He wrapped the ball in the teabag, and rammed it into the pistol. He withdrew it, and pointed the gun at my face. For a wild moment, I swore he was going to shoot me-But he swung around and fired it at a bush. Several birds flew out, one fluttered weakly to the ground-Bleeding from a hit. I stared in some amazement, as

Ramsay's sick girlfriend handed him another teabag to give to me.

"It struck me... The bag can be ignited, can it not? It's made of fine paper, perfect tinder. And if you pack enough powder into it, you can just use it as the igniter," he went on. He looked at me eagerly.

"What do you think, Theon?"

I nodded, studying the powderbag. "Ingenious," I said with a smile. And it was. "You cut a few seconds from reloading-"

"And it is easily applicable to every existing thunderarm," Ramsay completed. "In large scale warfare, that will allow even more volleys, even more shots... And the paper helps keep the powder dry if exposed to moisture, if given the right mixture..."

I nodded with a grin, temporarily able to forget that this was _Ramsay Snow,_ the bloodthirsty sadistic monster of the North. "Yes! There could be a lot of applications for this, but the powder part... This is brilliant, Ramsay."

He actually brightened, smiling broadly. "You don't know how long I've wanted you to _say_ that," he sighed... And I was immediately reminded of how creepy he was. "I _knew_ you would understand..." He grinned, his teeth glistening in the sun. "This isn't the _only_ thing I've created though... I _know_ you'll _love_ this one."

"Ah," I grunted, as Ramsay turned around. He rummaged in the crate, and produced a blunderbuss. His creepy girlfriend once again produced something... A ball of some kind that was a bit lumpy and shiny. Ramsay held it reverently, and smiled at me in a way that made me want to shit myself.

I managed to refrain from it though.

"The blunderbuss is all well and good," Ramsay said, "pellets flinging out, shot to take down birds and the like... It does _wonderful_ damage to unarmored men."

I slowly nodded. "Yes, it would," I said. Ramsay brightened.

"Oh, so you have also tested it?" He asked brightly. I managed a nod.

"Yes... Sheep and the like," I said slowly. Ramsay looked a bit disappointed, but shrugged.

"Sheep are easier to test on, I suppose," he said. "But the pellets... They don't _do_ enough... I-Ah!" He smiled as his other creepy girlfriend, Violet, arrived with a pig carcass over her shoulder. "Yes, hang it up there."

She diligently threw a rope over the branch, and raised the pig up. Ramsay slid the ball into the blunderbuss, grinning all the while.

"See, this ball is filled with _scrap,"_ Ramsay said, "sharpened... Easy to make, if one is running low on supplies... And best of all..." He raised the blunderbuss, and _fired._ The bang was loud, _so loud,_ but it wasn't as bad as seeing chunks of the pig carcass be ripped away. Blood drained from the carcass onto the ground, and Ramsay smiled like he had the biggest boner in the world.

He probably did, and I wasn't going to check.

"It... _Flays_ the meat," Ramsay spoke reverently. "Flays them down to the bone... Think of what it could do... To _men..."  
_

I very slowly nodded. "That's... That's great, Ramsay," I managed, keeping my lunch down. "So... What did you mix with the gunpowder? Some kind of glue?"

Ramsay looked delighted. "Yes! Animal tallow, treated with some petroleum out of the peat bogs-That is what you called it? Yes! I knew it!"

We talked for a while longer about the techniques behind it, and I agreed to write to him and have House Mollen meet with him to begin manufacturing powderbags. It would be a big commitment, but we could write out a contract so everything was fair. And with that, and a final reverent, creepy grin, Ramsay Snow bid me adieu.

"Shall we feast tonight? I would love to talk more about this..."

At least I wish he would.

"I'd love to Ramsay, really I would," I said, and it was half-true. "I'm pleasantly surprised at how easily you've grasped all this."

Ramsay beamed. I sighed and shrugged.

"But my work is never done," I said sadly. "I've got to attend to my duties and all."

Ramsay nodded. "I understand," said the boy, a bit disappointed. "But still... This has fulfilled... So _many_ of my desires... I can wait until next we meet. It will make it all the... _Sweeter,"_ he said. Myranda giggled, Violet beamed, and the creepy trio headed off. I watched them go, as stoic as I could manage...

While Dan threw up in the bushes behind me. I sighed.

"Damnit Dan, I was going to do that," I mumbled.

"F-Find your own bush, my lord," he replied, shaking.


	2. III, IV, V

**III: Siblings**

"So... The Father has smaller moons?" Bran asked, looking intently through my telescope at the "wanderer" planet high in the night sky. I nodded, scribbling down a few of my observations.

"Looks like..."

"Just like Planetos," Bran murmured. He smiled at me broadly. "I had no idea!"

I chuckled. "We're probably the first people to discover this," I pointed out. "Ever." I looked over at my other pupil for the night, "isn't that exciting, Arya?"

The tomboy snorted. "What good is looking at lights in the sky unless there's an adventure going on?" She scoffed. I shrugged and grinned.

"Well, someday men and women may fly on ships between those points of light... And who knows what they may meet," I said. "What adventures they'll have. Those are whole other worlds out there..."

I looked up in wonder at the stars shining down. Arya hummed.

"You think so?" She asked. I nodded.

"I _know_ so," I said fervently. "It has to be... I..."

I sat back a bit, and sighed. Bran looked away from the telescope briefly, and frowned.

"Theon?"

"Mm?" I grunted, scribbling down a few more notes.

"Why does looking at the sky make you so sad?" He asked. I started, and looked over at the two siblings. I sighed, and rubbed the back of my head.

"I guess... It reminds me that I'm under unfamiliar stars," I said, "and I'll probably never see them again... You know, home."

"Aren't the stars the same in Pyke?" Arya asked. I shrugged, flipping through my notes but not really reading them.

"I can't remember any more," I said softly. I found something in my notes though-Scribbles of the Big Dipper, the Dragon, the Pleiades... How could I know if any of it was real? If any of it was more than just a fantasy? Maybe I, Theon Greyjoy the Clever, had simply gone mad. Dreaming of a world that never existed...

I felt Bran's hand touch mine. I looked up, and the boy was smiling.

"This is home now, right?" He asked. "I mean... You're not going to leave us, are you?"

"He can't leave, stupid," Arya said a bit harshly, "he's got to show us his new thunderarms! And... and teach us more boring sky stuff." She looked at me, a bit nervous. "Right?"

I chuckled softly, and rubbed my cheeks. I got up and pulled Arya and Bran into a big hug. "Yeah... Yeah, I suppose I do," I said. "And relax... I'm not leaving any time soon."

"Urgh," Arya grunted, but she tolerated my hug. She only tolerated such affection from myself, Robb, or Jon. It was flattering, actually.

"That's good," Bran said with a smile. "So, show me the Crone! And those funny ears you found on it!"

"Rings," I corrected, smiling back. Arya snorted.

"What, on its fat fingers?"

"No stupid, around it like big wheel hoops!" Bran retorted.

"That sounds even dumber!" Arya bickered back.

I chuckled and leaned back in my chair as my foster siblings argued. I was probably not going to get any more work done tonight... But I didn't mind it too much. Not with this company.

 **IV: Reflections on War, Part 2**

What no self insert wants to reveal or go into vast detail on to an audience is how mind numbingly _boring_ it is getting things done. How many deals I had to make, how many times I had to meet with minor nobles to argue for land and coin. How many times I had to repeat the same proposals and same explanations to fools for them to understand how my machines worked. And eventually I had to give up even on that, and focus on the fact that the lords who _had_ accepted the technology were now prospering, and the fools were not.

How many failures I had with technologies, like nearly losing my head to a threshing machine prototype. Or the burns I got from a misfiring pistol. Or the sad messes I made of the chemistry I experimented with.

Oh no doubt, all of that could make for great stories. Indeed, I'd prefer to write about that... Except much of it would be the same story repeated over and over again. "I nearly died" or "I had to put up with horny idiot girls at a lord's house while I tried to get him to sign onto a watermill project".

Maybe I will write it all down, someday. If I'm not convinced in the future my life as "Andrew Joshua Talon" was not merely madness. Madness that inspired me to change the world, certainly, but it might still be madness. You know what they said about Targaryans.

Suffice it to say, this is to talk about moments significant to me and significant to the realm. And while my personal triumphs in technology and science are very important to me, I am pressed to recount my battles because that is the culture I live in. In a few centuries in Westeros, people may prefer reading about my triumphs with gunpowder and threshing machines over the battles. But I find that unlikely.

People will still be people. Even when we are travelling between the stars.

Now... Suffice it to say, the War of the Five Kings was taxing all of us. And I knew what was coming to the North. This was a distraction, it had to end. That smirking product of incest had to die, and the Realms of Men needed to be united against the White Walkers. There was no question.

Unfortunately, Tywin Lannister was not going to listen to me. He was not going to listen to any of us. So we had to remove his power, break the old lion.

And to do that... We needed Golden Tooth.

But before that... We needed a thunderstorm.

And it was fortunate that a fortnight after the Battle of the Whispering Woods and my conversation with Robb, that rain fell heavily in the night. I was dressed in a dark blue cloak, and carefully following a few other soldiers along a goat path up to the wall of the Keep of Golden Tooth. Lightning flashed above us, and the wind howled. I shivered in the cold, and rubbed my sides under my cloak. We came to the edge of the wall, and my troops began unpacking the package.

"Good, good," I said softly. We looked up at the wall carefully, seeing the lanterns of the guards. "All right... Hang on... Got it all together?"

They nodded. I looked over the device myself, and nodded approval.

"Now?" Rodrik Forrester, the nominal commander of this mission, asked. I shook my head, and held up a finger. Lightning flashed, and thunder roared a few moments after. I prepped the flintlock fuse on the modified cannon, and waited. Lightning flashed again, one moment, two-

I pulled the trigger, and the boom of the launcher was swallowed up by the boom of thunder. The grappling hook sailed up high, arching a bit in the wind. I had gotten pretty good at math in the time I'd been Theon, but there was the chance it would fail, the chance it wouldn't land...

The hook felt over the battlements. I nodded to the Forrestor boys, and they turned the crank on the rope wheel. It creaked, drawing it in like a great fishing line... And then it stopped. I reached up and tugged on the rope with all my might-And the hook held fast. I nodded, and waved on Rodrik. He nodded, and with his finely made gloves he began to ascend the rope. His brothers followed, and I went on after making sure the anchor points for the grappling hook gun were secure.

We clambered up over the top, and looked around. I checked my small map of Golden Tooth's keep, and motioned for us to head to the raven's roost. Rodrik I sent down to the gates with his small group of men-Greatjon Umber's force would be here soon.

We split up, and I went along the battlements carefully. At present, a guard with a lantern appeared, and I ducked with my men. I stayed still, quiet, as the guard approached. He looked bored, and tired. The late night shift was not kind to anyone...

I tightened my grip on my auto crossbow. It was quieter than a gun... I lifted it up, and took deep breaths.

I had... I had killed in this world before. I had done it to people trying to murder my little brother Bran. I had done it to save Robb. This though... This...

I squeezed the trigger. The arrow shot out, and hit the guard in the eye. He cried out, just as thunder roared. I tensed, knowing he would keep crying out, alert everyone-!

My companion, Ryon Forrester, quickly rose, covered the ground between us, and shoved a knife through the man's throat. He gurgled, and went still. Ryon laid him down, and gave me a smile.

I felt like throwing up. I managed to refrain from it, and took deep breaths. We continued our journey.

The roost was packed with ravens, and smelled of bird shit. Just like every other raven's roost. And standing in the middle, tying a note to the leg of one of the ravens, was an old Maester. His eyes widened, and he made to cry out.

"Shhh!" I hissed, having sprung across the room to cover his mouth. He whimpered, and I shook my head. "Calm down... We're not going to hurt you..." I held up my autocrossbow and smiled. "Relax, all right?"

The maester grimaced. I rolled my eyes.

"I'm not going to slaughter your household," I said flatly. "Who do I look like, the Mountain?"

The maester very slowly nodded. I sighed, and looked around.

"Secure the roost... I've got to meet with the lady of the keep," I said quietly.

It wasn't hard to find the lady's room. And it was even easier to break in, after my troops killed or subdued the other guards. I opened the doors and cautiously looked inside. Ryon snorted at me.

"Afraid to enter a lady's bedchambers?" He whispered mockingly. I rolled my eyes and went in, slowly. Ryon went ahead of me, a swagger in his steps as he came up to the side of the bed.

"Lady Alysanne!" Ryon spoke to the mass of sheets, "as a bannerman of King Robb's army, I, Ryon Forrester, officially name you a prisoner and demand your surren-URGH!"

He hopped back from the bed, a knife in his boot, as he cried out in pain. I rolled my eyes and pointed my crossbow at the bed.

"Lady Alysanne, would you kindly come out and surrender?" I asked flatly. "I don't think my assistant here could handle you."

The woman crawled out from under the bed, a glare of death in her eyes. She wasn't unpleasant to look at-A bit stocky but with curves, and dirty blonde hair over high cheekbones. She sneered at us as our medic quickly rushed over and tended to the yelping Ryon.

"Greyjoy the Clever," she sneered. "I didn't think you could live up to your name."

"Well, I've never heard of you," I said with a smile, "so I didn't come with any preconceptions."

The Lady Lefford growled at that. "Tywin Lannister will see you all hang!"

"Perhaps," I admitted, "but for now we're in control of your castle, and I'm going to need something from you."

She sneered. "What? To pretend to moan and squirm under your clumsy hands?"

I shook my head. "Do you Lannisters think of nothing but sex? I swear, you're all perverts. No, I will need something more important."

"What?"

"Your clothes."

Alysanne's eyes bugged out. "Wh-What?!"

"Sorry, the clothes of your guards," I corrected, lightly smacking the side of my head. "Too general there. I'm better now."

Alysanne stared in disbelief. "Are you a genius or a _moron?"  
_  
"Little of both," I said with a shrug and a smile. "They're less mutually exclusive than you might think..."

 **V: I Shoot With my Heart.**

 _AC 296, Winterfell, The North  
_  
Most of my industries and factories were located outside of Winterfell. There weren't any rivers nearby to run mills, and coal had just barely begun to come into use (and even then, it was limited due to the fact mining it in large quantities was beyond the North's capability right now). But Winterfell had geothermal power, and though it had cost a _lot,_ I'd figured out how to take advantage of it.

My little workshop was just outside the Broken Tower, well away from the walls to prevent any catastrophes. I'd learned my lesson when I'd tried testing gunpowder in the Broken Tower-I'd nearly brought the whole thing down on my head, and Robb's, and Jon's.

Catelyn Stark had been rather ambivalent about my inventing from then on, unless I proved to her that no, it would not explode.

It was funny how often I had to demonstrate that to her. But enough about my foster mother. I had my latest project before me.

I'd used the steel mill's dual valve blower to get the right strength of steel-But even then, I'd had to experiment with a dozen alloy mixtures before getting to this point. The other prototypes had fractured or exploded. Or melted, in one memorable case. I might have accidentally added some germanium to the gun, rather than tin. Very embarrassing.

I fitted the cylinder in, and wiped some sweat off my brow. I'd machined the parts myself to fit together and stick, and I wound the screws in tight. I fitted in the bullets-Also steel, and also very, very hard to produce. Mass production was right out, and probably would be for at least another year or two.

I lifted the revolver up, and turned it over in my hands. I took deep breaths, and stood up to admire the work.

"... Is that a wolf on it?" Asked a female voice. I jumped, but kept my hands tight against my body so I didn't knock over anything important. I turned, panting in shock, as Catelyn Stark stood before me with a raised eyebrow.

"Ah! Lady Stark! I-I mean, I'm, um-"

"You're late. For dinner," she said flatly. "All the other servants were busy, and I _know_ if I'd sent one of my children you'd all be even _later."  
_  
"Yes, yes, sorry," I admitted, rubbing my sweaty brow with a sigh. "I just had to... To fit everything together. Just right."

Catelyn Stark hummed, and walked up to my side. She held out her hand, and I gently gave her the gun. "Careful, it's loaded," I warned. Catelyn rolled her eyes.

"I was there when you gave the same lecture to _all_ of my children, you know," she said flatly. I tilted my head and frowned.

Catelyn Stark was... Difficult to read. She doted on all her children, hated Jon Snow, but me? She... Held me at a distance, no matter how much we met. Maybe she blamed me for keeping her husband away so much, I didn't know.

"Multiple bolts for this one, then?" She asked. I nodded. She smiled. "Hm... Must have been complicated."

Yet she went and did things like this.

"Yes my lady," I said. "It was... I'm uh, I'm making it for Lord Ned."

Catelyn hummed. "Nameday gift?" She asked. I nodded.

"Yes..."

She sighed and looked out onto the workshop. "You... You do love him, don't you?" She asked. I nodded, blinking.

"Of course I do..."

She examined the gun and looked back at me. "I guess I just... I'm not sure what to think, sometimes," she admitted. "From the day we met... You seemed to not need any of us."

I grimaced. "That's not true," I said earnestly. "I was all alone... I needed you all."

Catelyn Stark sighed. "In some ways, yes... In many others... You seemed to come with us with a fire under you. And it just kept going, and going..." She waved her hands with a smile. "And here we are... Theon the Genius." She stroked the gun, looking thoughtful. "You've left us all behind..."

"I... Well I am technically a hostage," I pointed out. Catelyn laughed, shaking her head.

"Do you really believe that any more?" She asked. I smiled wryly. "I remember when you sent ravens back home, with notes you wrote yourself... Day after day, month after month... And your father... He never wrote back." Catelyn frowned heavily at me. "He never... Sent anything back for you."

I sighed. "No," I admitted. That had hurt more than I thought it would. I'd had a lot of issues with losing parents in my old life... If that was even real. To repeat it here...

She wrapped her arms around me, and hugged me tightly. I stiffened a bit... Then relaxed, as I returned the hug as gently as I could. I rested my chin on her shoulder, and sighed.

The warmth of a mother holding me... I hadn't had _that_ in... In so long...

"Just... Please, Theon," she said, "promise me you won't spend forever in this shack... Promise me you'll get out for more than just work?"

I grimaced. "... I promise, mother," I said. I froze, and looked at her in guilt... But she just smiled and hugged me tighter.

"It's all right to call me that," Catelyn said softly. "In here... In private... Anywhere else, it would be a bit inappropriate-"

"Yes," I nodded, "I know. But... Thank you."

Catelyn smiled back at me. "It's all right, Theon..."

"I just..." I worked my jaw. "I wish you'd give Jon the... The same courtesy."

Her face grew cold, and she withdrew her arms. "That... I cannot do," she said flatly. I frowned.

"Why not?"

"You _know_ why not," Catelyn said angrily. "You've _always_ known-!"

"I could be a greater threat to your children than him, you know," I suggested. Catelyn stared at me in disbelief, and I shrugged. "I mean... I could... I'm not actually planning anything, mind you. Because you're my family, and I'd never betray you but-"

"Theon," Catelyn said coldly, and I grimaced at her stern look, "I understand you have... A good heart. A _kind_ heart. Your father's heart."

I blinked. "Balon's not exactly-"

"You _know_ who I mean," Catelyn snapped, and I nodded in silence. "But you cannot change the fact that... He is a betrayal... And I can't let that go."

I could have argued some more. I had been tempted many times to try and "fix" Catelyn and Jon's relationship. But I'd been busy, so busy... And Catelyn Stark was, essentially, my mother.

Standing up to her was never going to be easy. Even after everything I'd done.

"Not today," I said softly. Catelyn scowled at me, but said nothing.

"Come on," she said, "it is burning up in here and you should be with us... With your family." She turned and waited by the door. I pulled on my shirt and put the gun away into a locked chest. I then followed, opening the door for her.

"As you wish, my lady," I said.

We walked a while over the tundra in silence, before she spoke again.

"I do wonder though... All this activity, all these thunderarms and weapons..." She looked at me, puzzled. "You act as though a war was coming."

I shrugged, and smiled a little. "No... But winter is," I said. Her eyebrows rose.

"As cryptic as ever, Theon," she sighed. "But I will find out what you hide eventually."

"I've gotten a _lot_ better since I was ten," I replied.

Catelyn snorted. "I can just ask Dan now."

"Hey! That's not fair," I protested. "He probably knows me better than you do!"

"Mother's prerogative," she said camly, with a little smile. I sighed and shook my head.

"I'll find a way around that _one_ day."

"Even with all your genius? I find that unlikely," Catelyn laughed.

In the end, Ned Stark was very pleased with his revolver (which he named "Blizzard", as a compliment to the Great Sword "Ice"). He'd become fairly good with a musket and a pistol, but for the most part he preferred swords. It was the old way with him, more than anything else. Robb, Arya, Bran and Jon were all taken with the weapon, and asked me all sorts of questions about it.

Catelyn even participated, a bit curious about whether I could make the gun smaller for girls-Sansa had been shocked and Arya had been pleased. But through it all, she still gave Jon Snow the cold shoulder.

In the long run, maybe it didn't matter if she ever resolved things with Jon... But I knew I wasn't going to give up so easily on it.

After all... Despite everything... They were family.


	3. VI, VII

**VI: A Matter of Opinion, Part 1**

 _AC 298, Winterfell, The North_

Ah. Joffrey Bareathon. The most hated character in all of _Game of Thrones..._ Yes, I remembered that. Years of being in an alternate universe that had no TV and no Internet actually sharpened my memories. Made me want to remember _every_ bit I could. Every single bit, no matter how useless it seemed in retrospect. It let me call up what I needed to remember how to make electrical motors, after all.

Not much call for them yet, I'm afraid. The technology was just too new, and I hadn't even invented the _lightbulb_ yet. And as much as I wanted to spread electricity across Westeros, a flame for all mankind to warm themselves by... I just couldn't do it. Not yet.

Sure, I was rich. I was powerful. I was someone Lord Stark himself trusted! And I'd worked very, _very_ hard to earn and keep that trust. But it didn't let me get everything I wanted done. Besides, even after I'd put together guilds and alliances to run the businesses based on the innovations I'd introduced, they _still_ kept calling me up to resolve petty disputes and ridiculous bullshit! Ned Stark did much, and so did Catelyn, but I couldn't exactly put it all on their shoulders, could I?

Robb was finally getting old enough to mediate some issues, and Sansa had even gone on a few trips to mills and meetings (though being a teenaged girl, they didn't really make much of an impact).

But back onto Joffrey...

The day King Robert and his entourage came into Winterfell, I stood with the rest of the family in fine, machine-knit clothing. I'd managed to get myself some trousers, rather than just breeches. The style was becoming popular with the smallfolk, and I cheerfully wore them in solidarity.

The King was every bit the big, fat, jolly drunkard I'd heard of, and he and Ned joyfully reunited. Cersei Lannister was quite the looker, no doubt. She'd have been a lot prettier if she didn't look like she had a bit of shit under her nose at all times. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, looked cocky and resplendent in his white cloak and armor... And I was very glad I didn't come to this welcome celebration armed because I'd have probably shot him.

The King gave us all happy, joyful greetings... Even me. He clapped me on the back and laughed.

"Hahahaha! And you're Theon Greyjoy, eh? The Clever?"

"That's me," I said with a smile, "Your Grace."

"Hear you turned down the Maester's chain!" He laughed. "Not ready to become a eunuch, hm?"

"The women of the North would weep far and wide if that happened," I said patiently. Robert laughed harder.

"HAHAHAHA! Perhaps I'll change their minds! Hahahaha...!" He turned and busied himself with talking to Ned, and the Stark children were left to face the Baraetheon children.

"Well... It's nice to meet you," I said with a smile.

"And it's nice to meet you as well, Theon Greyjoy," said a cultured voice. Myrcella and Tommen moved, giggling, as a dwarfism-afflicted man strode forward. "Heard a fair amount about you..."

"And you as well, Lord Tyrion," I replied with a genuine smile and bow. Tyrion waved that off, as Joffrey made a face.

"No need to bow... I can see you from here," he said wryly. "Now then! Wine, women, and song are awaiting, so if you'll excuse me..." He waddled off, and Sansa moved up to Joffrey with a happy smile.

"Prince Joffrey, it is such a pleasure to meet you at last," Sansa sighed, looking love struck already. I exchanged glances with Robb and Jon. We were agreed-Big brother alliance was _go._

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Sansa," Joffrey returned with a smile. "I had no idea the North held such... _Beauty,"_ he said.

"Smooth," I muttered wryly to Robb. Robb snickered a bit. Jon hid his smirk.

After that, we parted ways and went about. I attended dinner long enough to have some food, and a few whores give me lapdances. I politely declined anything further, and soon moved over to the kid's table where Myrcella and Tommen were seated.

"Enjoying yourselves?" I asked wryly of the little prince and princess. Myrcella made a face.

"It's too loud," she sighed. "We haven't gotten to have _any_ fun at all..."

"Yeah," Tommen whined. I had a serious soft spot for kids-I couldn't help it. I'd had a lonely, unhappy childhood myself. I didn't like others having to deal with that. I looked over at the main table... Yes, Bran was talking with his brothers. Good. And Jaime was somewhere else, and Cersei was sitting and making a face at Robert's antics with a buxom wench.

Right... Okay... I could do this... I mean, I didn't recall _exactly_ when Bran caught the Lannister Twins, but surely if I kept him close I'd avoid that, right? Right.

"Well in that case," I said, "how about I show you my telescope? Look upon the heavens in all their finery." I glanced over at Bran. "Bran's helped me a lot, and he'd be happy to show off, right?"

Bran frowned at this. "Well..."

I gave him a pleading look... And he relented. "Okay," he said. I grinned back at the kids, and held out my hands.

"Come along, Your Little Graces," I said cheerfully, holding their hands and leading them off. Their parents did not so much as pay them a second glance. "We've got a whole universe to see!"

It was indeed a fortuitous night for astronomy. The basic reflector telescope I'd built and designed gave us very detailed views of the Father (which looked to be a Jupiter analog, possibly bigger), the Mother (a world that looked like Saturn), and the Moon. Myrcella and Tommen were absolutely fascinated, and commented they could see mountains and valleys on the Moon itself. Bran got to work the instrument most of the time, and explained a lot of the things we'd found.

"Yeah... A comet looks like a giant puff ball of some kind," Bran was explaining to an enraptured Myrcella. "Theon thinks it might be made of ice and rock."

"Not fire?" Asked Tommen curiously. I was sorting some notes and shook my head.

"Nah... Too cold," I said. "But when they get close to the sun, they heat up and gain tails..."

"Wow," Myrcella said, "do they predict the future, too?"

I sighed and looked up at the stars. "Who knows?" I said with a shrug. "The gods do have their senses of humor."

"We'd get a lot better view from the tower," Bran emphasized. I chuckled.

"Yeah, maybe," I said. "But we can do that any time. We've got royal guests!"

"Oh no, you should," Myrcella said happily. Tommen nodded.

"Yeah! That would be amazing! Think of how much more we'd see up higher!" The little boy clapped. I shook my head and sighed.

"Yes, yes, but _not_ tonight," I said flatly. "No climbing in the dark, or you'll die and your mother will have my head."

"I could make it in the dark," Bran said in a huff. I smirked and rolled my eyes.

"Save the bragging for when Myrcella is old enough to marry," I teased. Bran and Myrcella both turned bright red. I laughed, as Tommen made a face.

"Ew," Tommen mumbled.

"All right, off to bed with you," I said, standing up. "I've got a lot of work to do tomorrow and I need some sleep."

"Aw, can't we stay up a little longer?" Myrcella whined.

"No, no, come on," I said, "bed! Or the direwolves might eat you."

Myrcella and Tommen gasped. "They-They wouldn't!" Tommen whispered. Bran shook his head.

"No they wouldn't," he said. "Mine won't let them."

"Oh... You have a direwolf?" Myrcella asked brightly. "Can we see?"

"You can see them all _tomorrow,"_ I said tiredly, throwing a cloth over my telescope. "Now go! Come on, come on!"

I herded the trio of children from the battlement where I kept my telescope, to the stairs back down to the courtyard. Judging from the loud sounds going on in the Great Hall, the party wasn't going to end any time soon.

I had just gotten the kids to the Keep, seen them to their rooms, and headed back out into the night when I ran into Jaime Lannister-Quite literally.

"Oof!" I grunted, running into him. I pulled back and he chuckled.

"You might want to watch your step, Lord Greyjoy," he said. "Still don't have your land legs yet?"

"I'm just fine on land, it's _knights_ I have some issue with," I said wryly. "In my way, I mean."

Jaime nodded, accepting the weak comeback. "Teaching my nephew and niece about the stars, I saw," he said casually. I shrugged.

"It's what I do. Teach. Share wonders of the world with those I can," I said. I scowled a bit. "You don't approve?"

"Quite the contrary, I do," Jaime said with a smile. "A lot of it was over my head, but the _enthusiasm_ you have for it... It's a bit infectious." He smirked. "Just take care when next you take them on a trip: The Queen might scream 'kidnap'."

"That would probably be the only thing to change her facial expression," I observed dryly. Jaime shrugged.

"She's really quite nice... When you get to know her," he said. I smiled a bit.

"You'd know better than I... Being her brother and all," I said. Jaime smiled, as though hiding a secret.

"Yes," he said. He turned and headed off, whistling "The Rains of Castamere". I sighed and wiped my forehead.

Okay... Good news... I had restrained myself from hinting that I knew about the incest. If the Hand of the King wasn't safe, then no one was. I wasn't going to risk that.

Bad news... Still had to keep Bran safe until they were gone. This... Was not going to be fun.

 **VII: A Matter of Opinion, Part 2**

 _AC 298, Winterfell, The North  
_  
"Ugghhhh..."

I had personally designed my bed at Winterfell, and indeed, the beds of everyone else. They were comfortable, and as supportive as I could make them given the materials given me. It did not mean I did not wake up feeling grumpy and groggy though... And to a concerned looking Arya.

"Theon?" She asked. I mumbled something, and rose. "Theon! Hey!"

"Mmph," I mumbled back, rubbing my cheeks. I hadn't found coffee yet in this world-Truly, one of the great failures of my otherwise fertile and brilliant mind. Arya shook my shoulder, and I grumbled.

"What, what...?" I asked flatly.

"Mother is making me go with Sansa and _Joffrey,"_ she said in extreme distaste. "I need you to rescue me."

"Mmhm," I nodded slowly. "Okay... Okay..." I rubbed my face and sighed. "Ugh... Hang on..." I staggered over to my desk, littered with piles of notes, books, and other materials. Arya was standing next to me, looking anxious.

"He really that bad?" I asked, yawning as I fumbled through the papers for my journals. I'd written down everything I could remember of _Game of Thrones_ and my world that I could, in English... So I wouldn't forget the important dates...

"He's _worse,"_ Arya said in extreme distaste. "He tried to carve up Jeyne Poole's _face!"  
_  
I paused. "Seriously?" I asked, shaking my head. "What a cunt."

Arya snickered at my vulgarity. "And Sansa _loves_ him, despite that..." She shook her head. I shrugged.

"Well, you can't blame her for being dumb. Just for her not doing anything to fix the situation," I said. I scowled. "Fuck, where is it...?"

"What?" Arya asked.

"... Ah... Journal," I said. "With important notes about things. Things I can be doing with you so you're not stuck with Princess Cunt and Sansa."

"Doesn't Dan keep those things?" Arya asked. I froze, and buried my face in my hands.

"Duhhhhh!" I groaned. "I had him take the journals to my office," I rose and ran around the room, looking for my clothes. Arya watched, amused.

"You can't keep track of anything without him, can you?" She asked, amused. I scowled at her as I pulled on my pants.

"Careful, or I'll leave you to the tender mercies of Sansa," I warned. Arya scowled.

"Not funny," she grumbled. I sighed and rolled my eyes. Where the hell was my tunic...?

"So why didn't you go to Robb for the help? Or Jon..."

"Robb's going with the King and Father to hunt, and Jon's off moping again," Arya huffed. She picked up a tunic from the floor, and sniffed it. She made a face, and dropped it. "You're my only hope, Theon!"

"Yes, yes," I mumbled, pulling on my tunic and my coat. "Come on then," I said, turning to the door. I opened it... And there stood Catelyn, her face stern. "Ah... Good morning, Lady Stark-"

"Arya! Good," she said with a nod. "Sansa has been asking for you... And Prince Joffrey is waiting."

I sighed, and turned around to Arya. She gave me a pleading look. A desperate look.

"... Would the young Prince appreciate a tour of my workshop?" I asked with a smile. "I could lead all three of them to-Ah... Yes," at Catelyn's sterner look, I recanted. "How about a visit to the-?"

"Granary," Catelyn said wryly. She handed a note to me. "Dan asked me to give it to you," she said. I raised my eyebrows.

"Lady Stark, handling my mail? I truly am moving up in the world," I said with a smile. That didn't get a smile out of Arya though, and Catelyn gave her a sympathetic look.

"Don't worry... I'm sure Theon will keep you distracted enough Sansa won't annoy you," she said gently. Arya looked to me with a pleading expression. I sighed, and nodded.

"How can I refuse my most gracious foster mother and Lady?" I asked with a smile. Catelyn shook her head.

"Flattery does not suit you, Lord Greyjoy," she said with a smile. She turned and headed off. I looked over at Arya, who sighed.

"Can't you... I don't know, build us a flying machine to get us out of here?" She asked. "Fly to Dorne?"

"You remember the last two flying machines I built?" I asked.

"They worked!" Arya protested.

"Not well enough."

"That farmer was just stupid, thinking you were a demon."

"Stupid or not, he had damn good aim," I sighed.

Ah... Yes. Ten years of living in a medieval feudal society. Dragging it up, kicking and screaming, into an industrialized society. Arguing with lords, having to fight at least one duel for honor. Getting burned, and nearly blown up dozens of times. Knowing that beyond the distant wall was an army of magical ice demons that could lay waste to everything and everyone and I might not succeed.

Suddenly, none of that seemed quite so bad... Now that I had to put up with Joffrey Baratheon.

"I don't understand," he sniffed, watching the workers in the granary process the harvest, "why all this work and preparation?"

"They're making sure the food lasts for winter, your grace," Sansa said with a smile. Joffrey snorted, as a worker pushed sealed boxes on a cart by him.

"Feh... The last winter was years ago. All this scurrying about like squirrels with acorns," he sniffed. He glanced over at me, sneering. "And you say _you_ built this... Charming building?"

"I helped develop the technology for it, yes," I said with a nod. I turned back to the foreman-A good lad, Gregor Snow, he was a bastard from the Manderlays. He'd taken to the work with enthusiasm and had a gift for organization. "So the thresher's having some issues... Why not call in the mechanic?"

"Apparently the powder factory's blower broke down," said Gregor with a grimace. "The safety protocols you had them learn have them shut the whole thing down."

I shrugged. "Fair enough," I mumbled. "Lead the way..."

The threshing machines were pretty simple device, and was powered by a geothermal vent. The water was pumped to turn a wheel, and it powered the numerous and intricate gears and levers that made up the threshing machines along the floor of the granary. It was still too cumbersome to be made very mobile, but this one made it easy for local farmers to bring their harvest in, get it threshed, and then sell it at market-For a small fee, of course.

I sighed as I looked around the main transmission, poking around it. "Yeah, the gear teeth in number four have broken off," I said with a sigh. I scowled back at Gregor. "Third time this year."

Gregor shook his head. "I thought the ironworks had gotten that settled," he sighed. I shrugged.

"Quality control. Maybe I should send the Boltons in to teach them to not slack off," I joked. Gregor laughed, and I gave a little grin in return.

"Bit overkill, wouldn't you say?" Gregor asked. I shrugged, examining the teeth of the gear a bit more closely.

"Third time in a year when the part's supposed to last at least this long? Yeah, no," I said patiently. "Winter is coming."

Joffrey yawned loudly, and rudely. Gregor stiffened, and the Prince snorted.

"Toys spinning around... Little cogs everywhere," he sneered. "This really something _worthy_ to show a future king?"

"A wise king understands his kingdom, Your Grace," I said quickly, "from the smallest part to the largest. Why should you not learn about how even the simplest parts operate?"

"If I want that, I'll have a _bastard_ run things for me," Joffrey sniffed, and Gregor stiffened. "I suppose it's good to keep him here, tending cogs and crops, than winnowing away as a drunken wreck in a ditch."

I sighed, and put a hand over Arya's mouth. "Maybe we should head back?" I suggested.

Joffrey sniffed. "Yes... Least it won't stink as bad up there," he huffed, turning and heading out. He shoved one of the workers aside-A girl carrying a bundle of hay.

"Ah!" She cried, falling. Sansa grimaced, and hurried after him... But she did offer an apology to the girl. Arya glared at me... And bit me.

"Ow," I deadpanned. She scowled at me, and went over to help the girl up. I gave her an apology as well, and soon we were heading back up to Winterfell. Joffrey prattling on about the birds and rivers and wealth down South.

"... And the ornaments on the hall are gold and silver," Joffrey continued, "the purest you could imagine..."

Sansa had apparently forgotten the shoving incident, and was now listening, enraptured, to Joffrey's bragging. I sighed and considered the ramifications of killing him here and now.

... No, no. No one would understand, it would get them war anyway. And there was no way I could be assured of getting away with it. Hell, I'd had months to plan for the King's arrival and I'd _failed..._ Because I'd had to keep the little piece of the modern world I'd built here going. And I'd lost my guidebook to the future.

I sighed. Arya looked at me in concern, and reached out to squeeze my hand as we rode along. I started and looked at her. She smiled.

"If you're being bothered by that twat," she said, nodding to Joffrey ahead of us, "don't be."

"Why?" I asked with a smile. "He only gets to shove around people who trust me and not get punished..."

"Punished _yet,"_ Arya said softly. I smirked back.

"Yeah," I said with a nod. The walls of Winterfell came into view, and I sighed with relief. Maybe now I could start looking for my journal, start correcting things. I could take Bran up to the tower, mount the telescope... Keep him away from the Broken Tower. Stop this terrible series of events from coming into being.

Jon Arryn was dead, yes. I had tried to get people in to help, but the Lady of the Vale was already mad it seemed. And my resources in King's Landing were through Petyr Baelish-I didn't trust him. No sane man would.

But I had time... Enough time to...

As we entered the castle, I saw servants running to and fro, all with looks of concern. I saw Maester Luwin rushing across the courtyard, his face grave.

I got off my horse and ran, ran as fast as I could to catch up. "Maester Luwin, what-?" I tried... And the old man's face was grim.

"Lord Bran has fallen from the tower," he said. I stopped, my jaw slack. The whole world seemed to fall out from under me. I numbly held Arya and Sansa as they cried, as we went to see Bran. I consulted my journals, and looked in my books with the maester. I saw the boy I thought of as a little brother, laying there, still and pale...

And I realized the simple truth: I'd fucked up. I'd fucked up _royally._


	4. VIII, IX, X

**VIII: A Matter of Opinion, Part 3**

 _AC 298, Winterfell, The North  
_  
"Theon... Theon...?"

I started out of dreams of fire and death, and groaned as my aching muscles screaming their discomfort. The chair I'd chosen to sleep in was not very comfortable at all. I turned my head with a wince to see Catelyn Stark standing before me, her hand on my shoulder.

"Lady Stark," I said softly. She looked at the bed in the room, and I looked with her. Bran was propped up on a flatboard, his neck immobilized and his body held at a slight angle. It was a crude contraption, but I'd thrown it together in an hour to put Bran into it. I'd sworn I'd murder each and every servant who carried him if they dropped him.

"Holding him up... On a _rack,"_ she murmured. I grimaced.

"I know it looks bad, but trust me, this is the only way to keep his spine from any further injury," I said. "He's got enough to deal with as it is."

Catelyn nodded. "So Maester Luwin told me," she agreed. She looked down at the scattered notes, and drawings and sketches and thoughts I'd been writing down for...

"How long have I-?"

"Three days, this time," Catelyn said gently. She shook her head, studying one of the drawings. "Maester Luwin tried to explain, but... Well..." She looked a bit helpless. I sighed and rubbed my temples.

"Well... In the human body, there are... There's a network," I explained, "of fibers. They act like... Like roads or ravens, carrying messages back and forth from our eyes, skin, ears and so on back to the brain." I rubbed my beard. I needed a shave again, soon. "The brain organizes this information, figures out what is important and what is not, and sends messages back based on what you've determined. Some of these things happen automatically, like when you feel pain. Others require more conscious effort, like moving your limbs. With me so far?"

Catelyn nodded, sitting in the adjacent chair. I sighed and scratched my chin, trying not to look at Bran.

"Well, the main... The main channel of this network, the central one, is in the spine," I explained. "It branches down, from the brain, at points along the spinal cord to the rest of the body. If enough damage is done to the central part of the network-"

"It's like a dam on a river, nothing can flow," Catelyn realized. She looked at Bran and sighed deeply. "Oh Bran... Is... Is there any way he might walk again?"

"... I don't know," I admitted. Catelyn sniffled.

"That's... That's a bit better than Maester Luwin saying... He'd _never_ walk again," she got out in a sob.

"Almost as useless," I mumbled. I sighed, and shook my head. I looked at her. "I... Do have an idea... But I don't think you'll like it."

Catelyn looked at me in concern. "Why?"

"Because it involves bringing in a much better healer, who Maester Luwin knows... And doesn't approve of," I said. Catelyn stared at me.

"... Can he heal my son?" She asked. I sighed.

"... Well," I began. "He knows his stuff. He has a bit of a... A bad reputation. He was dismissed from the Order... And keep in mind, I don't know medicine nearly as well as I do engineering or-"

Catelyn placed a hand over my mouth, and locked her steely gaze to mine.

"Can. He heal. My son?" She asked. She withdrew her hand... And I sighed.

"... He has a much better chance of doing it than myself or Luwin," I admitted. Catelyn nodded.

"Then bring him in." She turned to look at Bran, the anguish on her face... I mumbled something, and she turned back to me.

"What?" She asked. I shook my head.

"No, no, I... I mean..."

"It sounded like... 'This is my fault'," Catelyn said, staring at me intensely. I squirmed, and closed my eyes.

I couldn't tell her the truth... She'd never believe me. But I could tell her something that might have been true. Equally true... In another life...

"I told him we were going to mount the telescope on one of the towers," I said. "So we'd get a better view of the stars..." I was choking up, and I wondered why. It was almost a lie, after all. "I told him not to go climbing... Without me. He'd fall..." I stared miserably at Bran. "He didn't listen... It's my fault... I should have... I should have been here, I should have-!"

Catelyn Stark hugged me tightly. I sniffled, and held her back.

"No, no," she murmured. "It isn't... It isn't... Don't blame yourself, Theon... Don't..."

Luwin looked like he was on the edge of a fit, as Ex-Maester Qyburn examined Bran. The old man, a mentor and a friend to everyone here, especially me, shot me betrayed looks every so often. I couldn't blame him, I suppose.

But if this disgraced ex-Maester could bring a man back to life from manticore poison, maybe he could do something for my crippled little brother.

"You've done well to hold him like this," Qyburn said with an approving nod. "Prevents further trauma to the spine. The swelling pattern on his back, from your notes... The breakage looks like it was on the lumbar vertebrae. Would you not agree, Maester Luwin?"

"I..." Luwin nodded. "Yes. The five vertebrae between the pelvis and the rib cage."

"These vertebrae house the nerves that control the lower part of the body," Qyburn said. He scratched his chin. "One or two of them were broken in the fall... The swelling has gone down, yet he has not awoken. The trauma is still going on..." He looked to Catelyn Stark, who was sitting quietly and watching him. "He thankfully did not suffer trauma to his head, Lady Stark. His mental faculties will not be impaired."

"Then why is he still asleep?" Catelyn demanded.

"A significant trauma like this, the body will withdraw and focus on healing itself, above anything else," Qyburn said. "I've seen it... Alleviating the pain and swelling will allow him to more effectively heal... But he must awaken on his own."

"And will he?" Catelyn asked. Qyburn nodded.

"We aid his natural healing processes enough, he should awaken. It may take time, but I am confident he will open his eyes again," he said. I glanced over at Luwin, who nodded (albeit hesitantly).

"And walking? Will he...?" Catelyn asked urgently, tears in her eyes. "He... He wanted to be a _knight..._ It was all he wanted-"

Qyburn took Catelyn's hand and gave her a compassionate look. "I know, my Lady... I cannot promise that he can walk again. Even my arts are not advanced enough..." He sighed. "Such damage... Would require replacing the ruined parts of the body, or bypassing the breaks in the nerves. I do not know how to do so..." He looked up at me. "But we can make sure he grows strong. Just because he cannot use his legs does not mean he that his life will be nothing but woe."

Luwin relaxed just a bit more at that. Catelyn smiled and nodded.

"I see... I... Thank you," she said. She looked to Luwin. "Is it all right if Maester Qyburn-"

"Ex-Maester," Luwin gently reminded us. Qyburn winced a bit. Catelyn sighed.

"Can he have access to your study and your notes while he stays here?" She asked.

Luwin slowly nodded. "Yes," he said, looking intently at me. Catelyn nodded, and wiped her eyes.

"If... If you'll excuse me," she said, getting up and walking out. Summer, Bran's direwolf, looked up to watch her go, and then laid back down on the fur rug, keeping his silent vigil. He had not reacted angrily towards Qyburn-Which was at least a point in his favor. I looked to Qyburn, who was smiling at me.

"I thank you for this chance, Lord Greyjoy," he said sincerely, "and I assure you I will do all I can to help."

I nodded. "I have heard... Terrible things about you, Qyburn," I said.

Qyburn sighed. "I will admit... I pushed the boundaries-"

"You experimented on _living men,"_ Luwin said gravely, shooting a disappointed look my way. I winced a bit. Qyburn nodded.

"I do not reject that... But what I have _learned_ can save so many, _so many_ others." He looked to me. "Is that not why you brought me, Lord Greyjoy?"

"I respect your knowledge and skill, Qyburn," I said. "I do not discard men simply based on bad reputation... If they genuinely wish to do good." I looked at him intently. "However," I said, "I cannot trust you to have free reign. I do not know you personally, I cannot read your mind... And this is my little brother, in everything but blood."

Qyburn nodded. "Distrust is the natural state of human affairs," he said. "We peer at one another, locked within our flesh. We cannot see into another's mind, know their intentions... Such precautions are natural, when it comes to kin." He granted me a smile, looking almost like a kindly country doctor. "But thank you for not adding rancor to your terms."

I nodded. "Just help my brother, and anyone else who needs it," I said, "and you can find a place here."

 **IX: Reflections on War, Part 3**

 _299 AC, Golden Tooth, the Westerlands  
_  
I was breaking fast with the Lady Lefford in her chambers, again. And enduring her insults, again.

"You'll all be burned alive," she hissed, "if you're lucky."

"Much like your cook burnt the roast, I imagine," I said wryly. I looked over at Ethan, sitting with me at the table. "Do you think he just overcooks it on purpose or what?"

"He's our cook," Ethan reminded me. I sighed, and dug into my potatoes.

"I know... I'll find him out one day, Lannister spy," I grumbled.

"Watch it, he's my cousin," Ethan laughed. I rolled my eyes.

"Where did he learn cooking then, beyond the wall? I'm sure _someone_ pointed out to him the difference between cooking turkey and cooking _rat."  
_  
"Might be some distant Targaryan in him, he burns everything," Ethan said with a shrug.

"Oh good, so if he cooks _dragon_ it will come back to life and burn us all," I complained. "I still say, Lannister spy."

"Just because he's a terrible cook does not make him a spy," Ethan pointed out.

"Believe me, I know," I sighed miserably. "Makes pretty good potatoes though."

"He's selling them at market. He's gonna call them 'Forrest Fries'," Ethan said with a smile. "Based on your suggestion, my Lord."

"Well, probably better than Freedom Fries," I mumbled.

"Actually, that might be even better!" Ethan said cheerfully. I groaned and facepalmed.

"Why didn't I invite your brother to dine with me instead of you?" I sighed.

"Cause he's getting the preparations done, and you don't trust me around things that explode," Ethan said, a bit sulkily.

"Oh yeah," I nodded. "That's why."

"Why are you so blase?!" Alysane Lefford exploded. "You hold the Tooth with but three hundred men! The Mountain who Rides has thousands! You will be crushed by sheer weight of numbers!"

"If we are to die tomorrow, I'd like to die after having something good to eat," I replied. "But it seems I'll be denied even that."

The Lady Lefford snarled. "You Northern Barbarians... You don't take anything seriously!"

"I think she's just offended we're not taking _her_ seriously," Ethan observed. I shrugged.

"Well, she _did_ stab you in the foot."

"I'm better now," Ethan said defensively.

"Well there you go," I said with a shrug to the Lady Lefford, "if you can't get him to fear you after stabbing him in the foot, you can't possibly expect us to take you seriously."

Lefford glared death at me... And then nodded. "Huh... I thought all you Greyjoys had tempers as short as your cocks!"

"I have more brains and more _cock_ than any Greyjoy, thank you," I sniffed. Lefford smirked nastily at me.

"Oh? Will you prove that then?"

"My lady, we are not married," I said flatly, "and I don't go for whores. Very unhygienic."

Lady Lefford leaped across the table, a knife in her hand. I managed to push back from the table, and my guards restrained her as she shrieked bloody murder at me.

"Please take her back to her room, with her supper to follow later," I said. "And do ignore any attempts she makes to seduce you-She admits she gets around."

The Lady howled in indignation, howls that were not entirely muted by the doors of the dining room being shut behind her. I sighed and rubbed my head, as Ethan ate his potatoes.

"I can see why you haven't been with any women," he observed with a smile. "You _talk_ to them."

"Thank you so much," I said flatly. A horn was blown outside the castle, and we both stood up. "That's not one of ours..."

Ethan handed me my red cloak and Lannister helm. I pulled them on, and with him similarly adorned, we walked out to the battlements of the gateway pass's walls. The rest of my forces were similarly disguised, or laying beneath the battlements. We looked down at the approaching masses of men, all with Lannister banners and cloaks, approaching the gates of Golden Tooth. At the head, unmistakable for anyone else, was the massive form of Gregor Clegane-The Mountain.

"Open the gates!" He bellowed. I took a deep breath... And nodded to Ethan. He quickly ran to one of my pages, and they quickly prepared. I turned and looked down at the Mountain from atop the wall.

"We're having some trouble with that! Give us a moment, Ser Clegane!" I shouted. Clegane gripped his sword even more tightly, and his horse grew uneasy. "... You can happily murder the gatekeepers if they can't finish the job though!" I added.

That... Actually made him and too many of his cohorts relax. Too many for me to feel very guilty about what was about to happen next. Ethan stood up, and held up a shiny mirror. He flashed it, five times. The army below stirred, a few men confused, worried...

I counted down in my head. Five, six seconds, seven... Eight... Nine... Te-

 _BOOOOM! BOOOOM! BOOOM!  
_  
On Earth in the 16th century, early land mines had consisted primarily of a hole in the ground packed with gunpowder and some kind of shot, called _fougasse._ They were more like primitive claymore mines, and were usually dug no more than three feet deep. I'd had many of my men digging them at specific intervals along the Red Pass, and the first went off at the rear of the column of Gregor's army. Their horses and men panicked, running for the wall. Ethan flashed four times, and the next closest mines were set off.

 _BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!  
_  
Clouds of smoke and debris filled the air, as did the screams of men and horses dying. I kept my eyes locked on it, even as the men began to pound and attack the gates. Third wave of the mines were set off. Then the second, the air filled with dust and smoke. I gave a nod to Ethan, and he bellowed out:

"WALL MINES! FIRE!"

Dug just beneath the thick walls of Golden Tooth's gate, mines exploded, shooting rock, iron shot and fire into the faces of the men. It was chaos and pandemonium below... And then I made it worse.

"ALL RIGHT LADS!" I shouted, pulled off my cloak. "RAISE THE COLORS... AND FIRE WITH EVERYTHING YOU HAVE!"

The flag of the North was raised, and muskets, cannon and grenade launchers came out to add to the conflagration below. I myself fired my revolver into the chaos below, while directing fire from the cannons.

I was a butcher, a monster, a God of War. I felt some guilt, but also satisfaction at ending evil, at destroying my enemy. The deepest, most primal sort of satisfaction... I was...

I frowned as I saw the Mountain still alive, with several men with shields around a cart, rushing the gates. Even as his men died, he just sliced through them or batted them aside.

"SHARPSHOOTERS! BRING HIM DOWN!" I shouted. My snipers opened fire, but even as I saw shots connect, the Mountain did not slow down. He only stopped, pulling a dead horse up for cover as the cart went on. The cart made it to the gate, right underneath us. I couldn't get a shot in on him. One of my bannermen pulled a grenade, and lit it... Just as I saw something familiar trailing behind the Lannister men below.

Something green... Something pungent that I could smell even through the dust and the powder...

"NO WAIT-!" I shouted, but the grenade was away... And the world exploded into green flames as the castle wall shook and shuddered... And the gate gave way.

Wildfire. I _fucking hate_ wildfire…

 **X: Reflections on War, Part 4**

 _299 AC, Golden Tooth, the Westerlands_

"Lord Stark! Wait!"

Ned turned from Jon Snow, and grimaced at my approach. "Theon, we've talked before-"

"I need to go with you," I said intensely. "I won't take no for an answer, I need to-"

"You're needed

here, _Theon," Ned said. He glanced at Jon, and the bastard moved away to his horse. He looked to me. "Theon, I know you blame yourself for Bran but-"_

"There's... There's a lot going on," I said. "More than you know..." I glanced over at the Lannisters, making ready to leave only a few yards away. "Things about... Jon Arryn-"

Ned held a finger to his lips... And turned us to talk away from the Royal Party. "There is something going on," he said, "but you... You'll make it harder for me to find it out."

I stared dumbly at him. "Why...?"

"The wonders you have done for the North, Theon... I praise the Old Gods every day that you have given them to us," Ned said with a grim smile. "Especially with what I hear in the South... But they've had a side affect... The royal court is leery of you. Now that they've seen a few of these... Seen what you can do."

"I'm not planning on making war on the South," I hissed. "That's the

last _thing I want-"_

"I know that, and you know that," Ned said with a nod, "but politicians... They're scared. Easily scared." he sighed. "And I can do my work much more easily... If you're not a hostage."

I stared dumbly at Ned. "Then you know something's going on you know-"

Ned shook his head. "Not here... And not by raven," he said softly. "But next we meet... I will explain everything and-"

"THEON! LORD THEON!"

"Ohhh... Fuck me," I moaned. My head felt like it'd been cracked open, but since I was still alive, that couldn't have been the case. I groaned as I sat up, and I blearily opened my eyes to a blurry, confusing world. At least one of my ears was ringing, and hurt like hell. "Wha... Damn..."

My vision slowly cleared, and I saw Ethan above me. I was laying on fallen rocks and bricks-Easy to tell, since they hurt like hell. He examined my eyes, just as I'd prescribed in the training manuals I'd printed off to the army. He smiled, sighing in relief.

"Thank the gods you're alive," he sighed. I shook my head and groaned.

"Where... Where am I?" I mumbled. I could hear gunfire going on, as well as men shouting, horses, the clashes of steel-All the sounds of battle. And I recognized the inner courtyard of Golden Tooth-Though there was more debris and fire than I remember. And the gate had a massive hole in it that was covered in fire. "What...?"

"The Mountain set off wildfire," Ethan said. He shook his head. "Or at least, got his cart full of it close enough to the wall for us to set it off..." He grimaced.

"They haven't breached the wall yet though," I saw. Ethan shook his head.

"No... The fires are too intense."

I grimaced and got to my feet unsteadily. Ethan held me up. "Shit... How many did we lose?"

Ethan looked grim. "Thirty dead, about fifty more wounded... The Lannister army's been hit worse though. Frankly, they probably won't be in a position to counter attack for a while."

"They're still going to do it though," I said. I grimaced as I limped over to the steps back up to the battlements-Shit, how the hell had I survived? I guess whoever put me in this world didn't want me dead just yet.

I got back up to the battlements, and Ethan was right-Through the dust and smoke, the Lannister army was in disarray, the wildfire having inflicted massive casualties on them. It was hard to tell, but it looked like at least a third of them had run for it down the pass-The men I'd sent along it would set off more mines, keep them off balance. Maybe a third of them had been killed-Hard to say. But more and more were turning back to the wall, and forming up behind dead horses and men and rocks. Even as they kept dropping from gunfire, more gathered up their courage.

That was not encouraging, to say the least.

"We hear anything from Robb?" I asked. "This whole thing won't work unless he charges in dramatically to save us..."

"Nothing," Ethan said grimly. I sighed.

"I really hope he isn't fucking some Westerling girl he'll knock up and then pity marry," I groaned. "Well...! Once more unto the breach, my friends. Once more...!"

I had sharp aches and pains all over my body-Maybe some things were broken, I didn't know. But I was able to handle a musket, and I went to my job of firing into the Lannister hordes. I looked around and grimaced.

"Where the hell are the cannons?" I groaned.

"We lost them in the blast," Ethan said.

"Terrific," I mumbled. "Any more good news?"

"The ammo trunks got hit, so we're down to whatever we had with us for ammunition," Ethan said grimly. I laughed in a hollow, broken sort of way.

"Oh... Good... Great..."

The fires, at least, were not abating. That kept most of the Lannister army at bay. The air was filled with the scent of cooking meat... Man flesh... Ugh...

By and by though, shield covered carts began to approach the wall, pushed by men in odd armor. It was bizarrely made, pure white and had a strange texture... Where had I seen it before...?

"The fucking hell...?" Rand Horst gasped as the men ran _through_ the green flames. "What kind of magic is... Is that...?"

Everyone looked to me. I blinked a few times, my aching head finally able to supply the answer.

"Asbestos," I muttered. At their looks, I sighed. "It's a mineral... You can turn it into cloth and it'll resist fire. The North doesn't have much of it but the Westerlands...?"

The carts had plugs in them, and the white armored men pulled them to release sand. They then ran, gunfire from the remnants of the battlements picking off a few but not enough. A few more made the same run, losing troops but putting down sand to form a path. And the flames were slowly but surely dying down just enough to allow passage.

And it wasn't hard to see who they were sending in first. A giant of a man, resplendent in white asbestos lined armor. A sword as long as a man in his hands, as his horse (in similar protection) galloped up. I sighed, feeling truly low.

"Fire proof armor... of course..." How he was able to breath through all this, I had no idea. Maybe they'd figured out air filters too-I'd made a few for miners in the North, it wouldn't take much for something similar to be devised here. And it was mounted on the Mountain who rides. "Fuck me..."

I looked around, trying to think. Trying to find something to... I saw Greatjon Umber digging in the rubble near the gate.

"Greatjon!" I shouted. "The hell are you doing?!"

"I saw a cannon down here, Lord Theon!" He shouted. He grimaced, turning over bricks and rubble. "Yes, it was... Right..." He grinned, and I saw a flash of brass. "YES! Here!"

They weren't the large cannons that Robb's army towed by horseback. Rather, they were small field pieces that could be toted along by a few men-Or, as Greatjon proved by hefting it out of the rubble, by _one._

I saw the Mountain approaching... I saw Greatjon handle the cannon...

I had an idea.

To see a giant, seemingly unkillable monster knight ride through the flames on a massive horse is truly a pants shitting sight, and I was glad I'd taken care of that before the battle. The Mountain came through in all his horrible glory, sword drawn, his fellow troops in equally fireproof armor coming after, was terrifying beyond belief.

I'd pulled up what reserves I could with muskets and pistols and pikes and swords and shields, and gathered them behind rubble. I rose up and stood in front of the Mountain, who stared down at me.

"You want to die first?" He asked, laughing hoarsely. I shrugged.

"No... But I'll happily accept your surrender," I shouted back. That got some laughter out of both sides. The Mountain advanced, sword rising up.

I threw myself to the side. "NOW!" I shouted.

Greatjon emerged from the rubble, the cannon slung over his armor with chain and straps. He pulled the pin, and grinned as he braced himself.

"CRY OVER THIS, YOU FUCK!" He bellowed, as the cannon BOOMED! The horse under the Mountain vanished into a chunky red mist, and the giant fell to the ground. His troops, shocked and dismayed, nevertheless charged as my men opened fire with guns, arrows, and charged with sword and shield. I got up, and ran over to Greatjon who was panting on the ground. He winced, holding his shoulder.

"Missed," he mumbled. I shook my head.

"And you got the line wrong," I said. Greatjon growled.

"I've got a dislocated shoulder, m'lord. I think that's the least of our-" He grabbed me and threw me aside just before a sword slammed down. I gaped in horror at the massive blade, and looked up at the Mountain. His eyes burned, and were focused squarely on me. Not the guy who fired the cannon at him, no one else. Just me.

"DIE," he snarled.

"NO THANK YOU!" I screamed, turning and running as the massive knight pursued me through the chaos of the courtyard.

 _Goddamnit Robb, where are you...?!_


	5. XI, XII, XIII

**XI: Reflections on War, Part 5**

 _299 AC, Golden Tooth, the Westerlands_

 _\- - - - -_

I could have really used an Oberyn Martell right about now. I'd actually managed to meet him, once or twice, since Dorne had a number of minerals I'd needed for more complex chemistry. He was affable, fun, flirtacious and just generally awesome. The kind of guy you'd love to go on a bar crawl with, or just have a crazy adventure. __

I could have really used him to help me kill the Mountain. That was probably much more pertinent to my situation, as I scrambled up the stairs, the giant knight behind me. I scrambled up to the battlements and looked out-While a fair number of Lannister forces were attacking, the majority were fleeing the fires. Good. __

The Mountain made it up the stairs, swinging his blade. I jumped back, trying very hard to ignore the splitting pain I felt. I rummaged in my ammo belt for something useful, anything... __

"Stand back!" I shouted, and the Mountain paused. "Or I'll blow us both to the Seventh Hell! With...!" I pulled out a bottle. I glanced down at the tablets within, and looked up at the Mountain. "... Mini-explosives!" __

"Medicine," the Mountain snarled. I popped the pills and swallowed them dry. __

"Painkillers," I said. The Mountain charged, and I ran over broken brick and fallen men as the monster pursued. I was feeling a bit better, which was... Not even remotely comforting at all. __

The Keep's doors had held together, at least. I yanked open the door, and slammed it shut behind me. I grabbed a suit of armor on display by it, and yanked it down to impede the door before I resumed running down the hallway. I slid on the smooth tiles, but hung a right to get to my appropriated quarters. __

As long as the Mountain was focused on me, he couldn't coordinate with the rest of his forces. My forces had a healthy depth of redundancy when it came to command. Roderik Forrester would take command, if Greatjon Umber was more injured than he'd first appeared. They could handle it... I hoped. __

I heard the door smash open, and I tugged open the door. I dashed in to my sleeping roll, for my trunk full of useful things- __

And right into a gun held to my head. I raised my hands, as Alysanne Lefford's smug face smirked from behind my spare pistol. __

"I believe you're my hostage now, Lord Greyjoy," she said sweetly. __

"If this is about sending you to your room without supper, I'm sure we can talk this out," I babbled. "Right now though, the Mountain is coming and you probably want to start running." __

Alysanne Lefford sniffed. "The Mountain is a loyal Lannister! The greatest knight of Westeros!" __

"Wow, you really _don't_ know anything, do you?" I asked. The footsteps of the Mountain grew near... And I noticed the hammer on the pistol was not cocked. It's funny what you can miss in the heat of the moment, isn't it? Well, with that in mind... I turned and sprinted for the adjacent room, slamming the door behind me. The Mountain entered the previous room, and I heard Alysanne Lefford huff. __

" _Took_ you long enough! Now go, he's in there! He can't escape-What are you doing?!" She shrieked. I winced as I heard her get picked up and carried to the bed. __

On one hand... She was an enemy who had tried to take me hostage. __

On the other... She was about to be raped and probably murdered by the Mountain, and I was ostensibly the good guy. __

"Fuck me," I muttered, throwing open the door. The Mountain was bending over, holding Alysanne down against the bed. I saw my trunk, left open... In the corner of the room. I dove for it, and grabbed my spare knapsack out of it. The Mountain looked up, snarled. I looked through my bag. __

A regular grenade? No. I had to use-Ah! __

"Suck gas, evildoer!" I shouted, pulling the pin on the smoke grenade and tossing it under him. A great cloud of smoke erupted around him, and as the Mountain flailed I gathered up the bag, ran to Alysanne, yanked her to her feet, and took off running. I pulled a second grenade from my knapsack, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the room behind me before running. __

"What the fucking hell-!" Alysanne gasped. I grinned at her. __

"The Mountain is about to go-" Even more smoke filled the air, along with a small _bang! "-_ bang?" I checked the knapsack... And groaned. " _Smoke grenades?!_ Why did I just pack _smoke grenades?!"_

A massive form barreled out of the room, sword held high. He roared in rage. I looked over at Alysanne, who was still tightly holding onto the pistol. She tugged on me to run. I took the pistol, pulled back the hammer, and fired. __

 _BANG!_ The shot staggered the Mountain a bit, and he fell back... But there was only a dent in his armor, not a hole. I cursed. __

"Fuck me, let's run," I said, yanking Alysanne along. We dashed, the Mountain's pounding footsteps echoing behind us. I turned left, then right, and ran, the noblelady struggling to keep up with me. __

It was about this time I should have probably asked for directions from the lady, since we hit a dead end with a wide window looking down over the pass. I sighed in some relief as I saw black cloaked troops with wolf banners riding up, firing guns and swinging swords and spears-Robb had _finally_ shown up, the dumbass. __

"We're trapped," Alysanne hissed. __

"Yes, I noticed!" I hissed back. "Clearly you got the _brains_ in the family!" __

"Why is he after _both_ of us?" Alysanne gasped. "Wh-What did I do-?!" __

"He's the same maniac who murdered Rhaegar's children, raped their mother, and then killed her just as messily for _fun,"_ I growled. "Do you _honestly think_ he'll care?" The Mountain rounded the corner, and I raised my voice. "Isn't that the right order, Gregor? You dimwitted sack of shit? You half-giant bastard!" __

He snarled, slowly advancing for us. I thumbed my smoke grenade-The last one I had. I had another idea. A ridiculous, stupid idea. __

"You diseased cunt! You don't have the brains the Gods gave a salamander!" I taunted. "And you're the most _fearsome_ knight in Lannister's army? You haven't even touched me!" __

"You'll die _now,"_ he snarled, thrusting forward with the blade. I dropped the smoke grenade, and threw myself and Alysanne out of the way just before the blade connected. I pulled on a pair of goggles-It didn't exactly let me see through the smoke, but it did let me look without squinting my eyes. I ran behind the Mountain, swung around, sprinted, and threw myself at his back with my shoulder. __

"RUN ALYSANNE!" I shouted. __

 _WHAM._

And I bounced back, stumbling away. The glass was smashed, and the smoke leaked out. Gregor Clegane emerged from the smoke, furious and unharmed. __

"Too small, dead man," he growled. I continued backing up as he advanced, thinking, thinking... __

I managed to grab a pike from the wall and thrust it at him. He swung his sword, and I flicked my shoulders to deflect the blade as best I could. The Mountain just closed the distance and grabbed me by the shoulder. He lifted me up, and slammed me against the wall. __

"URK!" I grunted, grasping his armored gauntlet in desperation. He dropped his great sword, and pulled his fist back. __

"First... I killed her children," he snarled, "then... I raped her. Then... I killed her..." His huge hand descended on my face, and I tried to close my eyes but they stayed wide open, " _like this-!"_

 _"_ St-Stop it!" Alysanne squeaked. The Mountain looked back at the terrified looking woman, who shuddered. "He... He's more valuable as a prisoner-!" __

He threw _me_ at her, and we collapsed in a heap on the floor. I groaned, and looked up as Clegane advanced. I pulled the sobbing Alysanne behind me, trying to be brave. More than anything else, I wanted to be brave, if I was going to die. __

And say something clever... But nothing was coming, I was too scared, as Clegane's armored fingers came down to grasp my head, and began to _squeeze..._

"ARGH!" __

A gray blur tackled the Mountain, and sent him falling off balance. He dropped me, and I scrambled away. I looked up, and relief filled me like nothing else ever had-Because Robb was there, with several gun armed bannermen. And Robb himself was packing his two revolvers, which he raised as I pulled Alysanne away and Grey Wind forced the giant knight back to the window. Gregor looked up, his face a mask of rage. __

"Ser Clegane," Robb said clearly, "would you like to surrender?" __

"NO!" The Mountain bellowed. Robb nodded. __

"Was hoping you'd say that," he said. He opened up with his revolvers, as Grey Wind took cover with myself and Alysanne. The steel jacketed rounds pierced Clegane's armor, making him stagger. His bannermen opened up with their muskets, and Clegane's face exploded into bloody splotches as the bullets hit home. Another round of bullets hit the monster, after Robb quickly reloaded, but Clegane stayed standing. Robb drew his sword, and he and Grey Wind _moved_. __

The direwolf slammed Gregor against the glass, shattering it. The Mountain tried to seize him, but the wolf jumped back-Just in time for Robb to thrust the blade through Gregor's throat. Blood spurted from his armor, and the great knight gagged. Robb yanked his sword back, and kicked the choking Gregor back, back... He tipped up, his eyes wide... __

And he was gone, plummeting from the keep to the courtyard below. Robb took deep breaths, and looked over at me with a smile. Grey Wind trotted up to me, and licked my face. I felt numb and limp, and looked up at my king as exhaustion hit me all over. __

"... You're late," I managed. Robb sighed. __

"Sorry..." __

"You look terrible," I said. Robb actually smiled. __

"You should talk," he said. I managed a laugh... Before I blacked out. My body had, at long last, decided it was time to say "bye bye." __

Not forever, but after what I'd been through? I think I deserved a _bit_ of a nap…

 **XII: Mundane Magic**

 _AC 295, Winterfell, The North  
_  
I rubbed my face, and squeezed my eyes shut tightly. I groaned and pulled my hands away. The flickering red light that filled the room was hurting my eyes... But in another minute or two, it would all be worth it, as I looked down on the trays of chemicals I had lying out.

And then there was a pounding at the door. I'd gotten a lot of those lately-It was getting a bit annoying.

"Theon? Theon... You aren't dead, are you?" Sansa Stark called through the door. "Because if you are, then... Then I'll never forgive you! Since I brought you food!"

I sighed, and checked the water clock. "Yes, I am dead," I replied dryly, "and this is my ghost. Please leave the food outside the door as an offering to my spirit, in the usual tradition-"

And then the door opened. I hissed, throwing a blanket up over the pieces of paper I had hanging from string-But it was too late. They'd gone black. "GAAAAH!"

"You're not dead," Sansa pointed out sourly, scowling at me over a tray of food. I groaned and covered my face.

"No... But I'm very tempted to make sure _you_ are," I grumbled. Sansa gasped.

"Wh-What'd I do?" She asked. She frowned as she walked up to my workbench, and examined the black pieces of paper. "And what are these...? You're burning paper? Why are you burning paper?"

"I'm not burning paper, I'm...!" I sighed and took deep breaths. Deep breaths...

"What are you doing _now?_ Are you trying to intoxicate yourself with the fumes? Because mother said she wouldn't put up with that any more," Sansa went on. I sighed.

"No, I'm not intoxicating myself with fumes, and I didn't do that _the last ten times,"_ I protested. "I was simply trying to-"

"Ooh!" Sansa beamed as she saw my box of completed photographs. She reached in, and pulled one out. "I remember this day! You had us all sitting around while you stared at us through a box! And then you flashed that odd little light at us!" Sansa made a face. "It was very boring! But you made drawings of it?"

"They're not _drawings,_ they're... Photographs," I managed. "Basically, I captured the light of that moment onto paper, and sealed it in."

Sansa gasped with a bright smile. "It's... It's like magic!" She said happily.

"No, it's _science,"_ I said. "Applied science."

"It's magic!" Sansa insisted, as she sorted through the photographs. "Like out of the old stories... Ooh, I look just like a princess in this one!"

I nodded begrudgingly. "Yes, you do," I said. It was a portrait I'd taken of Sansa individually. I hadn't told them what I was actually doing, I just asked them to dress up nice and be willing to sit still in poses for a while. Given what I'd created and done in the past... It was actually very easy to convince them to do it. My family... The Starks...

Sansa smiled happily at me. "Do you think... Do you think you could teach me how to capture light?"

I blinked. "You want to learn?"

"Well, most of what you teach us is so _boring,"_ Sansa sniffed. "Or loud, or frightening, or _dangerous."  
_  
"That is the _opposite_ of boring," I protested. Sansa beamed, ignoring my point entirely.

"But this... This is so beautiful... Oh please Theon, teach me? Teach me, please?" She begged.

I sighed, and looked back at my ruined photographs. The negatives were still safe-I was paranoid enough to cover them up just in case something like this happened.

"... I suppose I should, just so you don't screw up my work any more," I decided.

Sansa smiled happily, and I had to smile back. Sure, I much preferred working with her younger siblings but I honestly had nothing against the eldest Stark daughter. She made it too easy to forgive her.

"Teenaged girls, the same in any universe," I mumbled. Sansa blinked.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Now, let's start off with the basic principle of light exposure..."

 **XIII: Reflections on War, Part 6**

 _299 AC, Golden Tooth, the Westerlands_

 _\- - - -  
_  
The clean up after a battle is something that does not get a lot of attention. And why should it? It is always horrible, unpleasant, smelly, gross, and even heart breaking.

Having to coordinate with the local merchants to take the bodies of the dead Lannister men back to their place of origin. Having to work out a good rate for coffins (timber was plentiful enough to provide them, but it would probably do little to ease the rage of the Westerlands). Having the Photojournalists take pictures of important things, including the corpse of the Mountain (under Robb's foot, of course-Hey, he'd killed the fucker, it was only being truthful). And then send copies of those photos off to all the printing shops in the realms to spread the news.

All told, it was a great victory. The largest, most experienced army of the Lannisters had been virtually annihilated with a loss of less than a hundred Stark and Tully Bannermen. The greatest champion of the Lannisters, Gregor Clegane, was dead and his confession of how he'd murdered Elia Martel and her children spread far and wide. We'd sent his corpse to Dorne with a request for an alliance (that they'd been interested in), and his crushed helmet to Joffrey with another dictation of terms (that he had ignored, of course).

We had avoided the mistakes in the original timeline, for the most part... And despite all this, I could only think of the piles of dead men. The looks of a number of the Golden Tooth residents towards me. The weapons I had invented and brought into the world, that let all this happen...

"Theon...? Theon?" Robb spoke. I started, and looked at him across the planning table. His head bannermen were gathered there, all staring at me. "Are you all right?"

"Ah, yeah, I'm fine," I said with a nod. I looked at the report from Edmure Tully we were discussing... And I sighed. "Of fucking course..."

"He did take Harrenhal," pointed out Brynden Tully, "I don't see why you're unhappy about that."

"Because he was supposed to capture Tywin Lannister," Robb said flatly. He looked over at me. "Any thoughts on that, Theon?"

"He used Derek Justman's artillery battery, and _only_ his artillery battery," I surmised, reading through the report Tully put down on paper. "He was so taken with the power the cannons gave him, he thought they'd do all his work for him. He should have positioned his infantry and cavalry to cut off any escape from Harrenhal-Instead he just kept the rest of his soldiers fiddling around while he played with the cannons."

"That in turn gave Tywin Lannister his opening to escape," Roose Bolton surmised. He looked up with his usual calm, creepy look. "To be fair, Lord Tully has not had much experience in the North's 'Combined Arms' Doctrine."

"Well educate him in it, quickly," Robb said flatly. "The gate for Golden Tooth is nearly rebuilt, and I want him to be a more competent commander by the time we begin our march on King's Landing." He looked to Robett Glover, the lord of Deepwood Motte. "How goes your son's defense of the North from the Ironborn?"

Robett Glover puffed himself up proudly. "He's repelled their assault, and sunk at least twenty ships," he said with a broad smile. "Those Iron bastards couldn't land a foot onto Deepwood-Ah, no offense my Lord," he said with a nod to me. I shrugged.

"No, that's all right, they are bastards," I said. "The raids on Torrhen's Square have been a bit more harmful, but Ser Roderick's forces will be reinforcing them soon."

"My bastard has performed well there," Roose Bolton said, with the faintest hint of pride. "He tested his... What did you call it, Lord Greyjoy?"

"Gatling gun," I supplied, wincing a bit. "Yes... We might want to bring down his 'war wagons' sooner rather than later, depending on how Lady Stark and Amarda Honn's talks with the Tyrells go."

Amarda Honn was one of my business managers, and was very effective when it came to talking things out and making good deals. I had to resist the urge to call her "Pepper Potts" every so often, because frankly Dan Greenstone put up with way more shit than Honn had to from me.

Though Amarda was much, _much_ hotter.

"Did you have the idea for those, or did he?" Greatjon Umber asked, looking amused.

"I had the initial design concept, he worked out the turret," I said patiently. "In between the campaign I've asked him to keep up."

"What campaign?" Robb asked. I rubbed the back of my head.

"Well..."

\- - - - -

 _Six months ago... Theon's Cerwyn Office  
_  
"Ramsay," I said flatly, "you really need to stop breaking into my office."

"But I wanted to see you, Theon!" Ramsay whined. He grinned as he held up some photos. "Want to see what I did to that gang of bandits with my new flamethrower?"

"Maybe later," I managed. I didn't know if I was getting used to Ramsay's brutality, or I just didn't care anymore. At least he didn't do it to anyone innocent-I'd made sure he followed that. Actually, it was creepy how happy he'd been to obey me. "I have a new mission for you."

Ramsay's eyes brightened. "I'm going to help you _murder the fuck_ out of that inbred false king?" He asked eagerly. I shook my head.

"Not yet. I need you up here, Ramsay. The Ironborn might start shit and I'd like you to be around to kill them horribly."

"You _really_ have that much faith in me?" Ramsay asked, smiling broadly. I nodded.

"Of course! I know you can put the fear of the North into those bas-er, cunts," I replied, mindful of Ramsay's sensitivity to the word "bastard". He nodded to me.

"Thank you, but you can use that word around me. I wouldn't murder you for it," he said, "honest."

"... No problem," I said after a moment. "But! I do need your help down South with something."

Ramsay looked delighted. "Have you found a way to make it so I can be in two places _at once?"_ He asked gleefully.

"Sorry, not yet," I said, and he actually _pouted._ "But! Maester Luwin has broken down the magic of guiding ravens to me, and I want you to use what I've learned to send letters to Joffrey."

Ramsay tilted his head. "What kind of letters?"

"I would like you to put that mind of yours to work and tell him, in detail, how you would torture him, make him beg for mercy, kill him, and then desecrate his corpse," I said formally, "in whatever ways you feel would be most effective in making the little shit have nightmares for the rest of his hopefully brief life."

"... You're just too good to me, you know that Theon?" Ramsay sighed. He hugged me. "You're the best."

"No problem, Ramsay," I said, a bit uneasily, as I patted his back. "You have great talents, I just try to find ways for you to use them."

"You really complete me," Ramsay sighed happily. I winced.

"Could you... Not say things like that any more? People are starting to talk."

"Which people? Can I kill them?"

I sighed. "No, and nevermind..."

\- - - - - -

Robb stayed at me, dumbfounded. Roose Bolton looked proud.

"... So you've been having Ramsay write threatening letters to Joffrey, and he's been sending them every day for the past six months," Robb said slowly. I shrugged.

"It... Seemed like a good psychological weapon? I mean, I can get pretty dark but the stuff Ramsay comes up with in 'Crimson Fucker' mode-"

"'Crimson Fucker?'" Bryden Tully asked, the quotation marks visible in his raised eyebrows. I shrugged.

"I uh... He apparently liked it when I suggested it," I said.

 _Much_ staring. Lord Karstark snickered.

"Pet names between you, then?"

"Damnit, I am _not_ a sword swallower!" I growled. "I'm not Renley, goddamnit!"

"No, your relationship is apparently much deeper," Roose said. "I'm very proud of my bastard. You've made him very happy."

"Gah...!" I glared at Robb. "He's _not! We're not!"  
_  
"I didn't say anything!" Robb said, looking like he was desperately trying not to laugh. I sighed. Robb shook his head, and cleared his throat to get the meeting back on track.

"But yeah... Our campaign of information has been helping in that regard," Robb said. "Many Lannister bannermen are coming to the negotiating table with us, sending messages to declare their neutrality or allegiance."

"A cornered lion is at his most dangerous, though," Brynden Tully said. "And with Stannis and Renly about to fight it out, the Lannisters still have breathing room..." He looked to Robb, "and your royal sister."

"I know," Robb said darkly, all humor gone. "And even if Dorne sides with us, it'll take time for them to get any forces up to us..."

"We need to keep the Lannisters off balance," Bolton suggested. "Perhaps... Lord Greyjoy can provide us with a new strategy?"

Everyone looked at me. I looked down at the planning table, and sighed.

"... I'll see what I can do..."

It was hell when your nickname was "The Genius". Everyone expected you to live up to the name.

A raven flew into the tent, and alighted on my head. I sighed and reached up, pulling the message from its leg.

"Love letter from the Bolton Bastard, I take it?" Karstark asked, and there was much snickering. I gracefully ignored it.

"Do I have to go fuck the Lady Lefford in front of you all to make you stop that?" I complained.

"She might not complain too much," Robb said with a smile. I rolled my eyes, and read the note. I blinked.

"Who's it from?" Robb asked. I shook my head.

"My sister..."


	6. XIV, XV, XVI

**XIV: The Melancholy of Tywin Lannister**

 _AC 299, Antlers, The Crownlands  
_  
Tywin Lannister was not having a good year. Certainly, his grandson had ascended the Iron Throne. He had then chopped off Ned Stark's head and engulfed them in civil war. The War of the Five Kings, if only as a courtesy to that cunt Balon Greyjoy. Yet even he had done nothing to slow the North down.

The _North..._ Oh Tywin had heard the reports. He'd seen the profits rise from the North, the strange clothing, the goods and such. He'd expanded his trade, sent in a few spies, but it was _The North._ What could they muster beyond more wool, more wood, and a couple of trinkets?

Well now he knew. And the helmet of the Mountain, burned, shot through and battered had been sent. The Dornish had reported getting the rest of his carcass, after he was _killed... KILLED!_ By the Young Wolf himself! And apparently the Clever Squid had been the reason for all of it.

How had he not seen this coming? How had he missed all of this? It was impossible... _Impossible!_

"Kevan Lannister is trying to pull together his forces in Lannisport, but the levies are still very green," Amory Lorch reported. He sighed. "So far though, our counter raids are being checked... We don't know how, but every time one of our groups moves out, those thunderers from the Starks respond. Or their fire sticks start buzzing metal hornets past our heads-We don't know how they can do it!"

"Magic, probably," Leo Lefford opined. "How else could you make the earth tremble? Have it spew stones to slaughter good men...?" He shook his head, his eyes red from tears. "My poor Alysanne, my only daughter...! How did he capture her? What sorcery did he use-?"

"Oh... Could it have anything to do with the hot air balloons he's been sending up into the air?" Tywin Lannister asked his commanders dryly. They all stared at him dumbly. "I'm sure you've seen them... A farseer, or a pair of those _Northern glasses_ and the Young Wolf can see every move we _make!_ And direct his thunderers to land shot right _onto us!"_ He slammed his fists on the table. "No _wonder_ we've been outflanked and crushed at every turn! You fools look for witchcraft when the answer is _right in bloody front of you!"  
_  
"How can we face such arms, My Lord?" Amory Lorch asked earnestly. He threw his hands up. "The Mountain himself has been slain!"

"So what would you do, Ser Lorch?" Tywin hissed. " _Beg_ for mercy from the Starks? Bend the knee to this _boy_ from the North?!"

"A boy who has crushed our armies," Adam Marbrand pointed out, though he flinched at Tywin's glare. "Even with this _wildfire_ technique that your maesters developed, Clegane didn't stand a chance!"

Tywin glared at his bannermen. His incompetent, foolish bannermen. All worthless, all _feeble..._

"You are to go out and talk to all your commands, talk to _all_ our prisoners," Tywin ordered. "Get _everything_ out of them, not a _stone_ unturned. This couldn't have come out of nowhere, so get me some damn information on these menaces! And if you don't come back with anything _useful,_ don't bother coming back at all!"

His bannermen left, demoralized and shaken. Tywin sighed, sitting back in his chair. He covered his forehead, and rubbed it. His cupbearer was nearby, clearing food from the plates. He raised his eyes, and looked at her in disbelief. She lowered her eyes.

"... These wonders on the battlefield from the North," Tywin murmured. "Tell me... How long have you known about them?"

The girl paused, considering. She shrugged. "Being a... Minor member of a small household, my Lord... We saw a few of the Greyjoy Wonders." She glanced at him carefully. "Mills that produced steel, cloth, and lumber faster than men could produce them... Ships built like nothing we'd ever seen before... Medicines that let us live." She continued stacking the plates up, carefully. "Insistence on boiling our water before drinking it and the like... It was all so strange. It seemed like madness, at first... But it made everyone healthier. Richer." She shrugged. "Even farmers got more free time... Got thunderers, too, for hunting and the like."

"And you never thought to tell me?" Tywin asked. The girl bowed her head.

"I am not a soldier, my lord," she said softly. "And I had never seen the Bannermen practice with their thunder weapons... I had no idea what they could do. For me..." She just looked up, "it was just things that gave me a better life."

Tywin snorted, and shook his head. "The sad part is... A young Northern girl is giving me more usable information on Robb Stark's army than any of my own bannermen!" He sighed and stood up, looking out the window onto the courtyard. "The world made sense, only a few days ago... And now...? It feels like I knew nothing at all."

He sighed and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. "I ignored the North... We all did. What use was it to us? Even as more wealth, more oddities flowed out of there... We paid no attention." He looked at the girl with a scowl, as she continued to calmly stack the plates. "And now, we are paying for our ignorance." He studied her. "That why your stone mason father taught you?"

The girl slowly nodded. "He saw what the Greyjoy Wonders did... And he wanted me to have a better life. More knowledge seemed to grant that." She looked at him carefully. "My older brother used to say... 'You must evolve, or die.'"

Tywin allowed himself a small smirk. "Hmph..." He turned back to the window. "Good words to live by..." He shook his head again. "I'm glad I took you with me from Harrenhal," he admitted to the girl.

Arya Stark gave nothing away as she nodded. "I am too, my Lord... I am too..."

 **XV: Reflections on War, Part 7**

 _AC 299, Golden Tooth, the Westerlands_

" _Dear brother... It has been some time since we last wrote to eachother. I can understand your reluctance to communicate, and approve: You do not correspond with the enemy if you can help it._

As you probably know, the Iron Fleet has been defeated repeatedly. I myself only escaped thanks to my crew. Your North thunders sank a great deal of our fleet. But even these losses will never convince our father to bend the knee. His pride is too great... And the fact that

you _are the one who devised these weapons makes it worse._

"So, I will meet you to discuss terms, while I can. I'm bringing a number of ships with me-Crewed mostly by those who agree with me. Officially we are to raid the Westerlands, seek weaker prey. Unofficially... I will be at Seagard in four days from the receipt of this message. I will come in under a flag of Myr, with a white kraken, in the afternoon dusk. If you meet me, signal with three torches along the coast.

Do not take this as surrender, but parley, Little Brother. I am trusting your Northern sensibilities will keep you from taking me hostage. It would do no good, as we both know. Father would never ransom me back.

See you soon,

Captain Asha Greyjoy"

I lowered the paper, and looked up at King Robb. The last of my words echoed around the great hall of Golden Tooth's keep, where Robb was holding council. Lady Stark, Amarda Honn, and a few of his bannermen were sitting at the tables as I finished reading the letter.

"Do you trust your sister? Someone you haven't seen in years?" Roose Bolton asked directly. I shrugged.

"Even if she's Ironborn... She's got enough common sense to see that this would be a poor trap for me." I shook my head. "She's giving us all the power, and the cannons we've put at Seaguard can sink her ship..."

"I still don't trust her entirely," Lord Karstark harrumphed. "Ironborn treaties mean _nothing._ Ironborn parley? Almost as much nothing."

"Yet until the Ironborn are dealt with, we can't pull our entire fleet to the South," Robb hummed. He shook his head. "The Eastern Fleet is able to keep us supplied, but it has too few warships for seizing King's Landing; Much less blockading it."

"We could pull a few ships from the Eastwatch-By-The-Sea run," Greatjon suggested. "Put cannons on them-"

"What, with a Wilding Army a hundred thousand strong beyond the Wall?" I asked sarcastically. Greatjon scowled.

"The war is down _here,_ Lord Greyjoy!"

"I know that... But we can't neglect the Watch," I said earnestly. "Not _now."  
_  
Robb sighed heavily. "... We need the Ironborn off our backs." He looked at me intently. "Theon... Whatever you can do to stop the Ironborn, do so. But don't trust them any further than you can."

I smiled. "You know me, Paranoid Greyjoy," I said confidently. I frowned. "What will you be doing down here, Your Grace?"

"My mother will go down to treat with Renly and Stannis," Robb said, and Catelyn nodded. I smiled.

"Great! Take Amarda with you."

Catelyn started. "I-I don't know if I-!"

"I have," Amarda began, adjusting her glasses, "done much business with Lord Stannis in the past. I would be able to advise you in how best to approach this mission, My Lady." She bowed politely. Catelyn sighed, and smiled a bit.

"That you would... Thank you Amarda. Yes, you will come too," she said. My assistant turned to me, and bowed.

"I hope you will not be bereft of my services for too long, my Lord," she said. I grinned.

"I think I'll do all right... I'm still wearing clean clothes."

"We'll see how long that lasts," Amarda said dryly. Greatjon snickered a bit, but gave me a smile as my assistant and my foster mother left the hall.

"As for me," Robb said, looking a bit annoyed at being sidetracked, "I'm going to consolidate our holdings, and send another messenger to Joffrey to offer peace." He looked intently at me. "His only bargaining chip is my sister... We need to see if we can get her back."

I nodded. "I know," I said softly. I glanced over at Lord Forrester, and back to Robb. "If the response is bad... I've been putting together a plan to get her out of there."

Robb stared, surprised. "Out of King's landing?" He asked in disbelief. Roose Bolton nodded in approval.

"Good plan... Could use it to assassinate Joffrey," he suggested. Robb glared.

"And what would stop them from just killing Sansa then?" He asked. "Besides, they have a _spare."  
_  
Bolton nodded gently. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, looking faintly disappointed. I remembered something from the books, something distant... And shook my head.

"Robb... You need to keep hitting them," I said. Robb blinked.

"Excuse me-?"

"Not a full on campaign, mind you," I said quickly. "I mean, we need to get our logistics straightened out first. We've expanded so fast we _need_ to stop to let the supply trains catch up. But you can't let the Lannisters make any significant movements. You need to..." I smiled.

"You need to be _wolves."_

Robb blinked a few times... And then nodded. He smiled grimly, looking like a wolf himself. Grey Wind seemed to approve, giving the low whine he made. "Yes," he said. "We do..." He looked at me intently.

"Say hello to your sister for me," he said. "And as for the rest of you...?" He smirked. "Let's go hunt some _lions..."  
_  
The council of bannermen nodded in approval, and even Roose Bolton approved. I turned to head out... But stopped by Ethan Forrester, who was milling by the door and looking bored. He glanced at me and smiled.

"My Lord? Heading out?"

"Yes, to Seaguard," I said. I looked back at the council, and then to Ethan. "Look out for the King for me," I said softly. Ethan frowned.

"My Lord? I thought he could handle himself-"

"Yes, except not in _all things,"_ I said flatly. "Especially women. So make sure Robb doesn't get... _Involved."  
_  
Ethan stared at me. "... You want me to _cockblock the King in the North?"  
_  
"Yes," I said earnestly. "Damnit Ethan, do everything in your power to keep the King from getting laid. I don't care _how,_ just do it, and keep him alive. All right?"

Ethan sighed, and nodded. "Yessir..." He smirked a little. "Though I don't think he's your type, and whatever would _Ramsay_ think-?"

"Careful! Be careful," I growled.

 **XVI: Scientific Progress with Bran**

 _AC 299, Winterfell, The North_

"

My Lord, we are ready to begin again," Qyburn said, standing beside Bran Stark. The boy lord of Winterfell was held up by Osha the Wildling, as he leaned on a pair of wooden poles. The poles extended several feet on braces, and underneath his path were many furs and pillows. Bran sucked in a deep breath, and Qyburn hesitated. Luwin, standing on the opposite end of the poles with Hodor, smiled encouragingly.

"Unless you'd prefer to delay, my Lord," Qyburn said. "You did a great deal of exercise this morning and-"

"No," Bran said, shaking his head. He grunted, and gripped the poles. "I... I can do it... One more... One more time!" He concentrated, gritting his teeth. His legs and back were held in place by an elaborate wood and fiber-knit support harness-With steel wire to help him stay erect. It seemed a miracle Bran could move at all in such a thing... But with immense force of will, the little Lord managed to move his foot forward. He grunted as the foot made contact with the floor, and he sucked in another breath to take another. Osha beamed.

"Come on, little Lord! You can do it!" Osha cheered.

"Focus, Lord Bran, a step at a time!" Luwin coached.

"Hodor, Hodor!" Hodor said happily. Even Summer, who had been Bran's constant companion, seemed to smile through his eyes. Bran grunted, pulling himself along, sweat clinging to his brow. He pushed himself, one more step... One more step... It felt like his entire _soul_ was screaming in agony, like his body was on fire... But he pushed. He _pushed...  
_  
Just when he thought he couldn't take another step... Just as he'd gotten to the end... He growled, his eyes flashing yellow. Summer ruffed, and Bran managed his final step-Just before he lost his grip on the poles, and Hodor caught him.

"Haa... Haa... Did... Did it...!" Bran gasped. Osha clapped happily, as Luwin and Qyburn smiled. The old Maester held water to Bran, and the young Lord gratefully drank it. Osha immediately rushed to his side and began tending to him, wiping the sweat from his brow and fussing over his strained muscles.

"You are strong, little Lord, but stubbornness doesn't equal good sense!" Osha clucked. Bran huffed, sipping his water, as Luwin did a check over him.

"Very well, Lord Bran," Luwin said. "Now, I suggest you get some rest. The Master of the Coal Guild and his associates will be here soon to discuss the new mine dispute."

Bran groaned. "Didn't I deal with them already?"

"You did, my Lord," Qyburn said, pushing a wheelchair up. Bran managed to pull himself into it, Summer and Hodor helping him in. "But as I recall, they want to dig into the property of the Mechanics Guild. And given Master Cokesworth is still disputing the last repair job done by the local Mechanics, he has decided to appeal to you to resolve it."

Bran made a face. "I thought we established courts so we didn't _have_ to bother with this stuff," he grumbled.

"We did. But you are still the Lord of Winterfell, and as such, if the courts fail you must see to it," Luwin reminded him. Bran moaned, as Osha and Hodor pushed him away to his chambers.

"Wish Theon and Robb were back here to deal with _this,"_ he mumbled, as he turned the corner to go up the ramp to the upper level of the Keep. Luwin and Qyburn watched him go, Luwin sighing softly.

"He has come further than I ever thought possible," Luwin murmured. Qyburn, shuffling a few papers around, smirked.

"Is it surprising to you anymore, Grey Sheep?" He asked. Luwin snorted.

"I can admit to being wrong. Can you say the same, 'Doctor Qyburn?'" Luwin asked. The ex-maester shrugged.

"I can. Many times..." He smiled at Luwin. "In particular about our lord." He nodded after Bran. "Pleasantly wrong."

Luwin sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. He turned to his books, as Qyburn continued to gather his notes. "You make it hard for me to hate you, you know," the old maester admitted.

"I'm glad. Hate would dull your senses, Maester," Qyburn said politely. Luwin smirked, and shook his head. He sat down on a chair, and Qyburn sat down in an accompanying one. The ex-maester handed over his notes, and Luwin reviewed them.

"Even with all our efforts, he can still barely walk while supported," Luwin sighed. "And while the bones have healed... The nerves have not. Not enough to allow a return to movement, balance..."

"No," Qyburn admitted. "I would not say it was wasted-Our lord has become strong. He remains active. And he could continue the family line if need be-"

"What? How did you confirm _that?"_ Luwin demanded, eyebrows raised. Qyburn snorted.

"Nothing sinister, I assure you. He's had a nightly emission. He told me so."

"Ah," Luwin said with a nod.

"Of course, I decided to test if this was an isolated event, and had Osha undress in front of him to see how that influenced..." Qyburn trailed off, as Luwin scowled. He sighed. "You do take the fun out of life. Your penance for bringing so much of it into this world, I suppose."

"And his 'wolf dreams'?" Luwin asked flatly. "Still experimenting with that?"

"You've seen the results for yourself. It is plain as day," Qyburn said. "He is operating in some way beyond normal science..." He rubbed his chin. "Perhaps involving the radio waves you've been experimenting with?"

"Certainly not! And not x-rays either, or else he would be dead," Luwin sniffed. "Those devices for twisting light are _not_ toys!"

"Theon approached his scientific exploration with equal enthusiasm," Qyburn countered.

"And _equal caution!_ Or did you not see the letters he painted on the lead shields and aprons saying 'WEAR THESE YOU STUPID CUNTS'?" Luwin asked.

"That was a nice touch," Qyburn said in amusement. He shook his head and looked at Luwin. "Still... More experimentation is required. He's having the three-eyed crow dream more often... It tells him to-"

"I _know_ what it tells him to do," Luwin sighed. "I do..." He looked at the notes. "But could you let him go out, beyond the Wall, for the sake of dreams?"

"Not for the sake of dreams," Qyburn admitted. "But then... I have more than dreams to support me." He indicated the notes. "And sooner or later... He will go."

"... Yes," Luwin admitted softly. "He will..." He sighed. "But it doesn't have to be this day..."

 **Omake - You've been, Thunderstruck**

To the Ironborn, thunder was something not to be feared, but to be embraced.

The distant rumble of sound could often be heard well before wind or rain, telling an alert ship that it was time to find a safe harbor, or at the least to batten down and secure your ship for one of the Drowned Gods temper tantrums, lest he bring you into his halls before your time. It was in the view of some of the more devout a religious experience; a warning to the faithful to prepare themselves and their faith to be tested as the Drowned God separated the weak Greenlanders playing at sailors from the _true_ Ironborn who would be spared through their God given skill and courage, almost a right of passage. More than one Ironborn captain had seized the sound of thunder as salvation, sailing towards the booming sound to evade pursuit or avoid notice - it was a _welcome_ sound to a true Captain!

That had all changed now.

At first, the thunder on land had been their own. The roaring screams of his sailors as they had had swept out of the iron islands like a great storm to once again raid the Greenlanders, sweeping them away like spray on the wind. And indeed, for the first few weeks as he had led his fleet along the stony shore, it had seemed to be everything they had dreamed. They had raided tiny villages, barely worth the effort, if not for the use in honing their skills and focusing attention, in the hope that the Northern Lords would send their remaining strength to counter them, leaving their _true_ objective open to attack.

And after destroying a handful of fishing villages, he and his fleet had raced back out to see and flown South at the speed of wind, entering Blazewater bay and up the Saltspear as fast as they dared, arrowing for Moat Cailin to seize it before the Northerns understood the horrible danger they were in. If they _could_ take it and man those fortifications, the Northern armies would be trapped in the Riverlands, leaving the entire North now ready to pay the Iron Price to those they had so wronged!

But then, as they had reached the point where the great river shallowed to force their fleet to move single file through the channel, almost at the point where he would need to stop his flagship and transfer to one of the longboats to row upriver; thunder had rumbled over the fleet.  
Confusion had been the first reaction on his ship. Without a cloud in the sky, his crew had looked around searching for the storm.  
And he had _just_ barely noticed an odd cloud of smoke suddenly rising from the high shoreline ... when fire and blood had landed upon him.

The lead ship in their flotila hadn't had a chance, all but _shattering_ as the volley of heavy shot had slammed into it. First chains and balls snaring and tearing apart its rigging -and those unlucky enough to have been manning it- then heavy balls smashing thick oaken freeboard like kindling, tearing the proud _Krakens Lash_ apart in moments. The rear most ship in their fist flotilla had also been targeted, clearly an attempt to trap the bulk of the fleet between two sinking or uncontrollable wrecks, but the range had been long or those gunners were either less lucky or skilled, buying enough time for his superb sailors to wheel their fleet around (no mean trick in the narrow confines) and row downstream as fast as they could, fire chasing them and costing him another two precious ships, with more damaged.

Damaged but unbroken. And now _furious_.

During the night, he had reversed course, holding most of his fleet out of sight in the wider parts of the inlet while taking three chosen darkened ships to land up river, in the hope of attacking the shore battery from behind -for what else could it be but one of his damned traitor Nephew Theons 'Cannon' as he called them- to silence it and allow passage. And perhaps even seize them for his own - certinally they would make useful tools for his own purposes! Turn the damn cowards weapons against them - that would show them!

This time they had been met by the thunder of _horses_. It was the Ironborn who would have the dubious honor of becoming the first combat test of Rob Starks new 'Dragoons' unit. Barely fifty men strong, the unit had been on their way South from Winterfell to join the Riverlands army when word had reached them of the invasion. Theon had counseled his King that instead, this new front would be an excellent test of 'mounted musket men', suggesting that they deploy first to screen Moat Callin from any attack, insisting that it would be the first first target his Father would try to hit.

Trusting his all but brother, Rob gave the orders ... and by the grace of the old Gods, the Dragoons had been close enough to get word of the fleet sighting, correctly anticipating an attack on the shore battery and meeting the raiding party with volleys of carefully aimed fire and fury.

Victarion had lost _another_ fifty men to the thunder of the Northerners who infuriatingly would simply re-mount and move back if they tried to close the distance, dancing around them and riddiling them with volleys of iron from a new position. Costing him one man here, two men there. Soon enough he could see the truth; that fearless as his revers were, they simply lacked any ability to deal with the mounted troops who were whittling them down man by man. Enduring the humiliating chants as they ran from their attackers, crowing at them that they still had plenty of iron to give for a _very_ good price, so why were they running; they fled back to their boats and rejoined the fleet.

Sailing out to sea, he had abandoned his plan to seize Moat Callin; it was clearly too well defended and surprise had clearly been lost somehow. Heading North, he had renewed his attacks up the Stony Shore, dispersing his fleet to try and spread the defenders out for lack of any better ideas - but now thunder found him at near every turn! Oh how he had grown to _hate_ that noise that had once awed him! Even the look in his mens eyes as they would hear the distant faint echos of thunder from land, his ships often refusing to even try to land a raiding party when the distant sounds of battles a long way away carried over water. Furiously, he had driven his men further North, heading to Bear Island which, unconnected to the rest of the North, he hoped he could still hit with surprise and fury. Taking fifteen ships, daring to risk them all in an all-or-nothing attack. With luck, he could still gather enough plunder to make _something_ out of this fucking disaster and then regroup and come up with a new plan back on Pyke, hopefully even seizing some of these weapons for his own!

And now, he fled _fled!_ towards the open ocean as fast as he dared. Nine ships left behind him, burning or captured! Only six ships including his own having survived - and four, just _four_ Greenlander ships daring to _pursue_ an Ironborn fleet that outnumbered them. PURSUE them!

Well, so be it! If they wanted to close - the sea was still _his_ land, not theirs! And he would teach these fools _that_ lesson well before they were sent to a grave far too good for them.

But ... then his heart sank as claps of thunder ripped over the fleet. Almost unwillingly, he turned ... and saw the fountains of water erupt into the air as the first salvos started to chase his fleets.  
The _ships_ ... the _Greenlander ships_ were mounting cannons as well!

And the thunder of the sea was no longer their Gods alone.


	7. Weapons of the North, XVII, XVIII, XIX

**Weapons of the North**

 **Artillery**

Due to copper being relatively rare, Theon had to push the North into inventing the puddling process for creating wrought iron on an industrial scale. As a result, the cannons are made of wrought iron for the most part:

 **3-Inch Ordnance Rifle (The Storm Hammer Mk. I-III)**

Based off the US Army's 3 Inch Ordnance cannon from the Civil War, the Storm Hammer is the most accurate and longest ranged artillery piece in the North's arsenal. Made of wrought iron and produced in large numbers, it is used primarily with the army due to it's light weight and reliability. It is also assigned to militia and mobile fire teams in small numbers. Modifications to it by Theon include a spring-based suspension system to allow it to be transported over rough terrain more easily, and a gear-based locking mechanism that allows it to adjust it's angle to increase range and accuracy.

 **The Twelve Pound "Brandon Burner Mk I and II"**

Based off of the Dalgren naval guns of the American Civil War, these cannons fire twelve pound projectiles and can load a wide variety of ordnance, from grapeshot to chain. They are primarily used aboard warships but are also assigned to castles and coastal defense. They are smaller than the Dalgrens of our world due to the technology limitations, but thanks to a complex locking gear system they can be lifted or lowered to fire a variety of ordnance at several different elevations. This allows them to be used against almost any threat, though transporting them on land is slow and difficult.

 **12 Pound Mountain Gun "The Goat Gun"**

The most common piece of field artillery in the Army of the North's possession, the little Goat Guns are based off of the successful M1841 Mountain Howitzers. Small, smoothbore cannons, they lack range but can be placed on almost any terrain and transported in pieces by horses or even men. Greatjon Umber has been able to wield one of these heavy guns like a rifle, though without much accuracy. King Robb has assigned guns like these to "packs" of Northern cavalry. With reconnaissance from hot air balloon spotters, the Army of the North is able to quickly deploy artillery in the field, hit enemy forces, and then move quickly to launch another attack before the Lannisters can respond. They do see use on merchant ships as they are cheaper than the Brandon Burners.

 **12 and 24 pound "RavenDrop" Mortar**

Heavily based on the Coehorn Mortar, the Ravendrop is a simple but reliable mortar that allows for launching projectiles behind fortifications, and for some field use. Accuracy is improved with signalling from spotter balloons, and the mortars themselves are light enough to be carried by two men (though four is much more common).

As with all weapons manufactured by the Steel, Arms and Artillery Guilds, the components are standardized as much as possible to make mass production easier.

 **Hand weapons**

 **AC 297 Thunderarm (Rifled Musket)**

Essentially a copy of the Springfield Model 1863, thanks to the quick advancement of metallurgy in the North rifled muskets firing Minie Ball-type ammunition have become very common. The Thunderarm is slightly shorter than the Springfield, but still retains a bayonet attachment to allow Northern soldiers to defend themselves. It also allowed the Northerners to pose as mere pikemen, bringing unwary mounted knights in to sure killing range. They are also employed by the newly formed "Dragoon Packs", units of mounted knights trained to use muskets and maintain mobility.

The Thunderarm comes in a larger number of variants, built under license by a variety of Guild and House jointly-owned ventures across the North. These variants come in different lengths, some with mountings for sites, some with mountings for tripods, others with options for steel plating to make the weapon more useful for melee combat. All can fire ball ammunition if necessary, or Minie-ball ammunition (though the latter is usually preferred).

 **AC 295 Stormcrow (Unrifled Musket)**

A smoothbore muzzle-loading musket, and the first mass produced firearm ever created on Planetos, the Stormcrow is based upon the famous Brown Bess Land Pattern musket used by the British Empire, but has a few features of the French Modele 1777 musket in terms of reliability. It's range is, at best, 100 meters if you are a very, very good shot and/or very lucky. It was mass produced and introduced to the North as a "test run" firearm, to give the quickly evolving society experience with handling them. While a number are in use with the modern Army of the North, the majority have been replaced with Thunderarms, or converted into sawed-off shotguns for cavalry or close range use. Civilian use is still very popular, and has been growing slowly in the Riverlands and the Vale. Heavily modified and customized muskets were sold to rich families in the South as hunting tools and decorative items, but never in very large numbers.

 **AC 297 Whistler Sharpshooting Rifle**

Heavily based on the Whitworth rifle that was popular with Confederate sharpshooters and the French in the 1860s, the Whistler has a hexagonal shaped barrel and a matching bullet. The range of the rifle, in combination with a scope, is effective out to around 1000 yards. Due to it's construction, however, Whistlers are much more expensive and harder to mass produce. As a result, they are usually only assigned to the best shots in the Northern Army (or lords who can afford to purchase them). Sharpshooters are spread out with companies across the Army of the North, acting as snipers and spotters.

 **AC 298 Viper Shotgun**

With barrels originally based off the Thunderarm, the Viper is the first double-barreled shotgun produced on Planetos. Like most other firearms produced by the North, it is available in multiple lengths to suit different purposes. The majority of the weapons are in use with the Army of the North's cavalry, the Fleet of the North's Boarders, and the "Breechers": Troops trained to use explosives (lethal and non-lethal) grappling hooks, crossbows and small group tactics to take over fortifications from the inside or rescue/take hostages. Thanks to the explosion of salt mining in the Saltpans, Rock Salt ammunition is an option for the weapon as well.

Evolving from the Arbalests, the Bolton forces use these weapons to the exception of any others, especially with their infamous "Flaying Round Packages".

 **Mustang Revolver**

The first true revolver gun (and first true "repeater" weapon), the Mustang has so far been produced in small numbers due to the mechanical complexity involved in it's creation. As a result, the Mustang is generally reserved for nobles and are often customized based on house or personal preference. It is based on the Spiller and Burr revolver, churned out in large numbers for the Confederacy during the American Civil War. It was chosen for the ease of manufacture and basic reliability.

 **AC 299 "Snowstorm" Revolver**

The second type of revolver created, heavily based on the Remington Model 1858 revolver. Much sturdier and more reliable than the Mustang, it is primarily used by House Stark and those associated with it. Lord Eddard Stark had a revolver of this model named "Blizzard", while King Robb Stark uses two: "White Wind" and "Black Wind".

 **AC 295 Thundercloud Muzzle-loading Pistol**

Based heavily on the Chatellerault Model 1822 pistol, the Thundercloud is the most common firearm in Westeros (and has even found being used in Essos by particularly savvy pirates and bandits). Short ranged, light, coming in multiple barrel lengths with multiple ammunition types, it has spread across the North and even the poorest smallfolk in the North have gotten their hands on at least one. They have become popular with bandits and raiders in the Riverlands. Their handles are customized by almost everyone who gets one, ranging from wolf's heads among Stark Bannermen, to women among the Night's Watch.

 **AC 299 Bolton Steelstorm "Gatling Gun"**

Based on the original Gatling gun first employed during the Civil War, despite the complexity of the engineering the Gatling Gun has become fairly common for the Northern Navy and for special Army of the North forces, the Boltons in particular. Mounted like a cannon, or mounted on a turret on a war wagon or warship, the rapid fire Steelstorm is a fearsome weapon of terror and war

 **XVII: Sansa's Light and Dark**

 _AC 299, King's Landing, Red Keep_

Tyrion had become her virtual bodyguard these last few weeks, and Sansa Stark was grateful for it. She'd treated the dwarf with almost nothing but polite disdain when she'd first met him in Winterfell: Now, she was the prisoner of his family and he was the kindest person to her.

Well, aside from Petyr Baelish, but that always carried the undercurrent of something... _Unpleasant.  
_  
His companion Bronn wasn't too bad. He was crude, and vulgar, and crass-But he was clever, and honest to her at least. Tyrion too, though he was more polite and more cultured.

"The maesters say we could replicate the thunderarms relatively easily," Tyrion said, reading a few notes sent from the maesters themselves. He rolled his eyes. "'Relatively', indeed... Even Lannister smiths would find it hard to make these things."

"And even if you could, we'd still be outnumbered and be handin' the fuckin' things to men who don't know how to use 'em," Bronn commented, "up against men who do. The maester might as well have wiped his arse with that paper and sent it to you."

Sansa couldn't help her snicker at that. She did get a smile from Tyrion.

"Least his arse has good handwriting," Tyrion lamented. He sighed and held his temples. "I'm not particularly broken up about the loss of the Mountain, but the fact of the matter is that his _army_ is gone. Robb could move on us at any moment... And the Ironborn attacks haven't been particularly noteworthy to divert his attention."

"Probably logistics," Bronn said. Tyrion looked up, and nodded as the head of the City Watch continued. "He's kicked your father's army's arses so hard, and moved _so_ fast, his supplies ain't caught up yet. I've seen those thunderarms in action-Ya gotta get yer men rounds, powder, replacement parts... To say nothing of food, clothing, medicine, mail from home..." The sellsword smirked, "Yer literally runnin' faster than he can keep up."

"Something to be said for speed," Tyrion observed dryly. "He'll probably try diplomacy at this stage... He wants independence for the North, not the Iron Throne..." Tyrion looked over at Sansa, "unless he has some hidden depths of ambition?"

Sansa knew that revealing information was dangerous-It had gotten her father killed. She'd been so foolish... But maybe she could help her brother in this. As much as she didn't want Tyrion or Bronn killed, she didn't want them to win.

"My brother would only take the Iron Throne if he felt he was duty bound to do so," she said carefully. Tyrion laughed softly.

"A typical Stark..." He seemed to say it to her as much as about Robb, "which is not particularly helpful..."

"It is as helpful as I can be, my Lord," Sansa said softly. Bronn snickered. Tyrion sighed.

"Fair enough," the Hand of the King muttered. "Our biggest problem right now is Renly or Stannis... Both have enough power to lay siege, and are in a position to do it. If they can stop their bickering long enough. Unlikely, given their personalities."

"So basically, King's Landing is only not under siege because two brothers are fightin' over their armies like toys, and our armies are runnin' faster than their pursuers can keep up," Bronn surmised, pouring himself some wine and drinking it down. "Mmph... And what do we have?"

"Captured arms from the North, without the training or supplies needed to use them," Tyrion said. He noted Sansa's wince, and he sighed. "I am sorry for that, Lady Sansa. I truly am..."

"I know," Sansa said quietly. Tyrion looked back.

"My father's host split off... We've bolstered the defenses at least a bit," Tyrion said with a sigh, "but not enough against determined assault..." He scratched his chin. "And all the sellswords in the world can't help if they just get picked off from range."

"How'd the Squid manage _that_ , anyway?" Bronn asked. "Knights have enough umbrage when it comes to crossbows..." He looked to Sansa, "how'd yer father convince the proud North to take up thunderarms?"

Sansa worried her lower lip, considering... "I didn't pay much attention to such things growing up," she admitted. "But... There was a lot of excitement over having the power of the old thunder gods in your hands... In making fire and steel our servants..." She shrugged. "They were things my older brothers and younger sister loved. So... I didn't pay much attention."

"Understandable," Tyrion said, his eyes peering into hers. She had to look away, but he didn't press further. "That's irrelevant though. At this moment, they have them and in abundance... As well as balloons to spy over hills on us. Have you ever been on a balloon, Lady Sansa?"

Sansa nodded. "I have... I wanted to take a picture of Winterfell, so Theon took me up in one of them..." She smiled and sighed. "He said he hoped men would one day fly through the air, like birds. And even sail between the stars in the heavens..."

"Sounds like he wanted t' start a nest wit' you," Bronn snickered. Sansa blushed furiously, as Tyrion tutted.

"Bronn! Really... Saying such things to a lady of Lady Stark's station! So very inappropriate," he said. "Besides, squids don't form nests. He'd be shooting his seed at her like bullets. Get your foul analogies in order."

Sansa covered her face as Bronn laughed out loud. Tyrion laughed a bit himself, before the weight of his duties reappeared.

"Well... Dorne is unlikely to help, even after giving them a princess. The Vale has so far said _nothing..._ The Reach has sided with Renly..." He sighed. "Our list of options grows thin..."

"Could always ask the Targaryan girl for help," suggested Bronn. Tyrion snorted.

"And I thought things couldn't get any worse..."

"Good afternoon, my lord, my lady," Varys said, the eunuch coming in with a genial smile. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but the King wished to see Lady Sansa."

Sansa and Tyrion both stiffened. Varys smiled kindly.

"The Hound will be in attendance, Lord Tyrion. And the Queen has promised he will be on his _best_ behavior," he said silkily.

"... Well I wanted to take a break, how about you Bronn?" Tyrion asked. The sellsword nodded.

"Eh, why not. Maybe the King's got a new collection of puppies he wants to murder in front of us."

"That's _my_ joke," Tyrion grumbled.

As it turned out, Joffrey did not have dead puppies. He had pictures, and letters, and froth at the corners of his lips.

"YOU-YOUR BROTHER KEEPS SUCH MONSTERS AROUND?!" Joffrey bellowed from the Iron Throne, throwing the letters and pictures to the steps beneath them. Tyrion gingerly reached down to pick one up, as did Sansa. Tyrion winced, and raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, the Crimson Fucker," he said with a nod. "What are these of? They look like... Arms." He tilted his head. "Arranged to spell out 'I'LL KILL YOU'."

"And countless other depravities and monstrosities!" Joffrey seethed. He glared death at Sansa. "ALL MAKING THREATS AGAINST MY ROYAL LIFE!" He tossed another photo, and Sansa picked it up. She studied it. "WELL?! WHAT HAVE YOU TO SAY, TRAITOR?!"

Sansa looked at the photo. Ramsay was cheerfully smiling, his new... Flamethrower, she think he called it? On his back and in his hands. It was bulky, and required you to wind up some kind of pump before use-She did remember Ramsay showing it off to Theon. He'd been so happy, so cheerful... And Theon had been a bit disturbed and she didn't know why.

Well, seeing that he'd used the flamethrower to burn a bandit alive, she now saw all too well. A bandit with a sign reading "I thought I was a clever bandit, but I really wasn't."

"WELL?!" Joffrey nearly shrieked. Sansa looked up, and put herself in the mind of the cold, cold North. Her face was expressionless.

"It appears, my beloved fiance, that Ramsay Snow's photography has gotten better," she said carefully. She shrugged. "Not much better, but at least you can read the words on this one." She set the picture down, and brushed her dress off. She stood silently, as Joffrey stared at her in incomprehensible rage and confusion.

"If you'll permit us to leave, your Grace," Tyrion said politely, "I have much planning to do for the defenses of this city, and Lady Sansa has been... Very helpful in that regard," he said, looking to Cersei. The Queen Mother grimaced, but nodded to her son. Joffrey scowled.

"... _Fine,"_ he seethed. "Get out!"

Tyrion, Sansa and Bronn bowed, and headed out. Tyrion looked at Sansa as they exited the throne room, her face still icy cold. The dwarf managed a small smirk.

"I said it before, and I'll say it again," he murmured. "You will yet survive us all, Lady Stark."

"I intend to," Sansa said, just as softly.

 **XVIII: Diplomatic Relations, Part 1**

 _AC 299, The Riverlands, Seagard Castle_

I stayed so busy during the ride to Seagard, I barely remember any of it. Riding past supply trains of men, horses and carriages. Stopping by an inn and giving them a generous amount of money because a stray cannon shot had hit their garden. Sending letters and messages constantly by Raven...

It almost felt like I was texting and emailing again. Only instead of with electronics crapping out, I had to deal with ravens crapping on my shoulders or paper.

Yeah, you Sprint guys feel pretty lucky right now, huh?

But! Three and a half days of hard riding, and barely resting, got me and my small party up to Seagard. I greeted Lord Jason Mallister, and inquired about how his crews were coming along with their cannons. Apparently they'd sunk about six Ironborn ships before the rest had gotten the message and fled. I met up with a few of the gunnery trainers, and the manager and representative of the Arms Making Guild-Anari Leygood, who was getting no end of lewd jokes about her last name.

She sucked it up though... No wait, that sounds worse. She didn't take it lying down... Better?

Anyway, I told them I'd be meeting a ship on the coast that evening, and to look out for my signal fires. They complied, though Lord Jason was wondering if he could come himself. I thanked him, but said I had to come alone. I gave him a few other instructions, which made him much happier. I then wrote them down and gave them to Leygood, to make absolutely sure the Mallisters didn't mess up.

It wasn't out of disrespect to them, mind you. I just didn't want this to go badly...

And so there I was, the sun setting in front of me, the waves gently lapping against the beach, the sea air in my lungs... Alone... On a beach, with three big torches lit and burning proudly.

My cloak was waving in the wind, and I had my arms crossed over my chest to make myself look heroic. Might as well make a good first impression, right?

By and by, I spied a rowboat making it's way to the beach. There was a Myr flag flying from it, all right-With the faint outline of a white kraken on the flag's whipping fabric. A few men in cloaks were aboard, all armed, all looking around warily. There was one form in a cloak, smaller than the others, who sat in the back until the boat touched the shore. This figure stepped out of the boat with practiced grace, tall leather boots protecting her legs.

She looked to me, and pulled off her cowl to give me an infuriatingly smug smile.

"Good evenin', little brother," Asha Greyjoy greeted me, walking up to the dry shore. She raised an eyebrow. "You trying to impress me?"

I shrugged. "Are you?"

"Not particularly," she said. I lowered my arms and smiled.

"Then I wasn't trying hard enough," I said. We stared at each other, a bit awkwardly. She covered it up with some bluster, and a smirk.

"You've made quite the name for yourself," she said. "The _genius..._ The Merchant of Death... The Artist of Doom..."

"I don't paint enough for that last one to count," I said with a shrug. My sister laughed deep in her belly, shaking her head.

"A court jester, too! Any end to your talents?" She laughed.

"I do okay," I said with a shrug. Asha shook her head, and sighed.

"... Been a long time," she said. "Felt longer... Like you're not... Not the boy who left Pyke."

I shrugged back, with a wry smile. "I'm not," I said. "Now... What can I do for you, dear sister?"

"Not here," she said, shaking her head. "We can't talk here."

I stared at her. "Right... Go with the pirate princess to her boat. What could _possibly_ go wrong with that?"

"Don't trust me?" Asha asked.

"We are technically at war," I pointed out. Asha smirked.

"Not with each other."

"Yes, with each other," I said flatly. Asha's eyes widened a bit.

"So... You admit to being a Northerner, over an Ironman?" She asked.

"I don't know... What reason do I have to claim to be an Ironman?" I asked. I spread my arms out. "Would my inventing, my efforts have been appreciated at all back on Pyke? Would Father have given me the same authority and means to do good as Ned Stark? Would I have the same brothers, sisters _-family-_ as I do in the Starks?"

"Don't," said a gravely voice from the boat, " _don't_ mention brothers... And _family..._ In the same breath as Stark around _me,_ boy."

Asha's eyes widened, as did mine. A grizzled man took off his helmet, and came ashore from the boat. His eyes were like hard iron as they bored into mine. His hair was windswept and gray, over skin made hard and wrinkled by the sun and breeze.

The rest of the men came ashore, save for two at the oars. They brandished weapons at myself and Asha. My sister actually looked surprised.

"Father?!" She gasped. Balon Greyjoy shook his head.

"You're too young yet to double cross me," he said flatly, and his eyes locked onto me. "And _you..._ You're not nearly as clever as they say you are, _boy."_

"

Nice to see you too, Father," I said with a sigh.

 **XIX: Diplomatic Relations, Part 2**

 _AC 299, The Riverlands, Seagard Castle_

My father... My real father... God, it was so hard to keep track of it all. It was as though every memory I had of myself was rising up, up, _up_ now that I'd pushed the world to... A certain level. Like I'd been allowed to remember who I was, after doing penance as Theon Greyjoy.

Anyway... My real father could be hard to get along with. We were both stubborn people, with high intelligence, and different ideas about how to get things done. And even if I agreed with him on a number of points, we fought a LOT.

But ultimately, I respected him because I recognized his position. He loved me, and did everything in his power to help me. He made mistakes but I saw where his intentions were and I loved him for that. Even if we disagreed, I saw he was only trying to do his best for me. And I was lucky to have a dad who didn't become so self-involved he ignored me, or one so inadequate he abused me. We had our problems, but he was my father and I was his son.

With Ned Stark... It was a similar relationship, though more difficult. Lord Stark was exacting, tough, and uncompromising. But I only had to convince him of the merits of my ideas, and he was behind me all the way. He pointed out the difficulties in securing alliances, how hard it would be to do this or that... But I did so much, and the more I did the more he trusted me. And even though I would never be the swordsman or tactician Robb would be, or the tracker or leader Jon could be... I was the kind of warrior and leader people needed when they had to put things together. When they wanted to build things. I pushed the grand ideas, but I figured out who would handle the details and keep the numbers straight. I could figure out what people really wanted and figure out ways to give it to them, while showing them the benefits of working together. And Ned Stark saw that in me, and let me push it to the point I had mills across the North and courts of law and even a _bank_ improving the lives of everyone.

He didn't understand everything I created... But he saw the value in it if I saw the value in it.

Maybe I couldn't inspire men to follow me into battle as easily as Robb or Jon, and I'd never begrudge them that. Maybe I couldn't defeat every menace with a sword... And maybe, as Eddard Stark said frequently, I talked too much. But he saw the value in me, and pushed me to realize it in my own way. Ned Stark was a good father, and a great man. And if I had taken a savage satisfaction in avenging him... So be it. It proved how good a father he was to me.

Balon Greyjoy... However...

"It figures that the only good seed I had went into your brothers," the Lord of Pyke sneered as he glared at me. Asha and I were surrounded by the Ironmen, each with a weapon out. Not to strike me down, I hoped... But they were ready to stop any sudden movements. My hands were clasped in irons in front of me, a bit too tightly. Might have been my gloves, hard to say...

"One of you... Taken from me and turned into this... _Greenlander,"_ Balon sniffed, "and the other... A treacherous _whore!"  
_  
"I was trying to get him to come back to our side, Father!" Asha protested angrily. Balon shook his head.

"By usurping me? By lying to me? You would have my lost heir give you the Islands, would you?!" He spat. "Why else would you meet him in secret?! Why else would you hide this from me!"

"We are _losing_ this war, Father," Asha tried. "All thanks to Theon!" She held her bound hands up to me. "What could compel him more than family?! To return to our side, to give _us_ the power of thunder and steel?!"

Balon glared at her, and then turned his glare at me. "Well boy...? What have you to say?" He hissed. "Some pitiful excuse about salt and iron _still_ flowing through your veins?"

"From a technical point of view," I said, glancing at one of the swords pointed my way, "it is. Blood's chock full of iron and salt. So congratulations, you got that dead on."

Asha stared at me like I had gone mad. I just kept talking.

"Problem is... That's all you got right," I said flatly. Balon snorted.

"So you are a Greenlander... My own blood-!"

" _Your_ own blood? Since when have you _cared_ about your own blood?" I demanded angrily, and Balon's eyes widened. "I was a _spare!_ My older brothers, _you_ sent them off to _die pointlessly!_ "

"It was _not pointless!"_ Snarled Balon. "It is the Iron Way! The way of the Drowned God, the way of-!"

"Of a pitiful, pathetic old man who tries to revive glories that only existed in your _mind!"_ I snarled back. "Your reaving and pillaging and _raping,_ what has it accomplished?! _Nothing!_ The last time you tried this, you bent the knee and thousands of innocent people, including my two brothers, _died!_ Now, you tried it again... And what happened? You've been _defeated!"_ I shook my head. "And now, you try to bring back the son you _abandoned_ to the Starks to get me to help you?"

"What good is your help?! I wouldn't want your help anymore, you worthless whore!" Balon seethed back, spitting his angry words. "You tinker and fiddle and have those _coward's_ weapons to hide behind-"

"Says the coward who wants those coward's weapons to slaughter innocent men, women and children for _stupid reasons!"_ I snarled back.

"It... It's how our family does things, how it's _always_ done things-" Asha tried, maybe trying to get on Balon's good side, maybe trying to help me. I didn't care.

" _SHUT! UP!"_ I shouted. I pointed my finger in Balon's face. "I remember your long, useless silences. How you just ignored me. For ten years, I sent ravens and letters and you said _nothing!_ And now, you come back and shout at me and _demand_ I save you when it's your own stupid, foolish pride that got you into this war?! Attacking and murdering the people _I care for?!_ " I shook my head. "Do you see the problem with this?"

Balon seethed. "How dare you-!"

"Of course you don't!" I shouted back at him. "You _can't!_ You're no king, no warrior, no _noble._ You just can't _stand_ that the rest of the world is leaving you and your shitty society behind! 'We do not sow'-It sums it up _perfectly!_ You build nothing, you create nothing, you inspire _nothing._ You _are nothing,_ Balon Greyjoy! Especially not _my father!_ "

He smacked me then. I felt a tooth loosen. I slowly turned back and wiped the blood from my mouth.

"Touched a nerve there?" I asked.

"Get on the boat," he snarled. "I'll get your secrets if I have to _beat_ them out of you."

"I wouldn't," I said, even as the guards seized me. "I WOULDN'T! Not unless you all want to be dead in the next fifty seconds! Forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven..."

"Get on the boat!" One of the sailors growled, even as I kept counting.

"Wait! Why are you counting? What is it?" Asha asked desperately, as she was carried along too. I just kept counting, smirking at Balon. When I got to thirty-five, he paused the guards trying to shove me into the boat.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Oh, I'm counting down until the cannons fire on us," I said with a bright smile, which I made as manic as possible. The eyes of every Ironborn there widened, almost comically.

"Cann-?"

"If I don't sent up the appropriate signal in... Oh... Twenty-eight seconds," I said, "House Mallister's cannons will open up on this position. All of them. We all die."

"You're _bluffing,"_ Balon seethed, glaring at me, daring me to admit to lying. I just smiled back. "What's the signal?!"

"Nah, don't think I'll tell you," I said.

"You'll _die too!"_ Balon seethed.

"Yes... And I still win," I said with a grin. "Can you say the same?"

He and his guards seized me, and shoved me back onto the beach. My shackles were undone. "Make the signal!"

"All right, all right," I sighed. I rummaged in my pockets, and produced two basic flares. They were primitive, but effective... And labelled the same way. "Huh..."

"Wha-What's wrong?! Send the signal!" Balon nearly shrieked. "SEND IT!"

"Well, I _think_ the _green_ flare says 'Everything's fine', and the _red_ flare says 'Open fire', but I can't remember which is which," I admitted, raising my eyebrows and shrugging helplessly. "Bit of a bother, huh?"

Balon's eyes were bulging. He looked fit to have a heart attack. His loyal Ironborn were already fleeing along the beach, as fast as they could go. Asha was lying in the boat, struggling to get free.

"SEND IT YOU LUNATIC!" Balon screamed. I lifted up the flares... And then dropped them on the sand.

"Oops," I said dully. "Butterfingers."

Balon seized the flares, and frantically ignited the first one he could... Which burned red. His jaw dropped and he looked to the sky in terror. Asha sucked in a deep breath, and looked at the sky as thought expecting death.

"Three... Two... One," I counted down. Several shots rang out, booming across the sands... I pulled my pocket watch out, and smiled. "Right on time."

Balon opened his eyes. "... Wha...?"

Three figures emerged in the direction the Ironborn had fled, resembling nothing so much as walking piles of seaweed. They got into range of the flare, and pulled the seaweed from their heads-Revealing three women, one a little older than I, and the others a little younger.

"Mission accomplished, Lord Theon," reported Meera Reed, her cheeks red and an Ironrath repeater rifle in her hand. The other women, looking a bit greasy and built like a UFC champion fighter, nodded with a similar firearm held close to her chest. The last one was tall, long black haired, thin, and stoic.

"Iron Men are dealt with. Four dead, the others surrendered," Nyla Crag, the heavily built one, said. I nodded.

"Good work," I said. "Meera, you had better get back to the caravan. Your dad will be expecting you soon."

Meera huffed. "You sound like me brother," she said, but she headed off. I turned to my stunned father, still on his knees in the sand.

"... You _tricked_ me," he said softly.

"They call me the clever... I should live up to the name," I said, as the two Crannogwomen bound him. I looked over at my sister, still in the boat. "Take him to the castle. I'm sure Lord Jason will be very happy to meet him, face to face."

Balon snarled after me. "YOU... YOU'RE DAMNED, THEON GREYJOY! YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE! NO HEIR! YOU ARE DISOWNED, CAST OUT FOREVER-!"

"I DON'T CARE~!" I shouted back in a sing song tone. I walked back to my sister, and sat on the edge of the boat. She stared back at me.

"... So... Now what?" She asked. I sighed, and looked out at the darkening horizon. The Ironborn ship might still be there, might not. Maybe my sister had taken the wrong ship to be so easily deceived, maybe not.

"Now... I'm going to have a long conversation with my sister," I said. Asha stared at me.

"You're mad."

"Probably," I said with a smile, "but if we're going to be working together, it helps to know each other better."

"... And you expect me to work with you after that?" Asha asked flatly.

"Would you prefer to work against me?" I asked, just as flatly. She looked suspiciously around at any other piles of seaweed in the area... And looked back at me. She sighed.

"So... Where would you like to begin?" She asked. "And can I get these irons off?"

"One step at a time, sister dear."

Asha snorted. "Perverted Greenlander."

"Do I _look_ like a Lannister to you?"


	8. XX, and more Omakes

**XX: Tyrion Lannister Sticks to his Guns**

Noho Dimittis was a severe and dour Braavosi, and Tyrion found his pinched face a bit amusing. Not that he said as much to him. He didn't need to make things worse.

As Acting Hand of the King, he was expected to do what he could for King's Landing. His father was holed up in Casterly Rock, and had said nothing but to continue doing his job. So do his job he did, as he sat in the chair opposite the representative of the Iron Bank in his office.

"As said, Lord Tyrion, such a request is unusual," Noho said patiently. "I am not a military man, I am simply a banker. And King's Landing is in enough trouble as it is."

"Yes, I am aware," Tyrion sighed. "I got a fair amount out of Petyr Baelish... Not all of it, of course. One never can get the whole truth out of him. But the fact of the matter is, Braavos has been _extremely_ quiet to King's Landing ever since this war began."

Noho shrugged. "I do not set government policy, my lord Hand. I merely carry out my duties."

"As do we all, as do we all," Tyrion said with a nod, "but that does not change the fact that the punishments for espionage are much the same in both our countries." Tyrion swished his wine around in his goblet, and looked up at Noho. The banker trembled a bit, but gave nothing else away.

"Whatever do you mean?" He asked politely. "I am merely a humble banker-"

"Who has conducted business with the Silver Bank of the North on more than one occasion," Tyrion said. "Indeed! Meeting with a few representatives in this very city!"

Noho shook his head. "Those were simple business transactions-!"

"That the Queen Regent has saw fit to declare 'illegal and worthy of treason'," Tyrion said. "It's a short step from espionage, you understand my dear banker." Tyrion sipped his wine, as the banker shuddered. "And you've presumably seen what this King has done to those he considers spies and traitors."

"He would not dare risk his business with Braavos!" Noho said. "We hold such enormous debt from the Crown-It would be _suicide-!"  
_  
"Yes, yes, financial ruin and the like," Tyrion said, waving his hands. "I daresay the rest of the Kingdom hasn't been getting along terribly well since this war began, either. While Petyr Baelish didn't get much footing in the North, he was still profiting from the trade..." Tyrion finished his glass. "And you in particular, as I recall. Or did those trade ships under your control, but under different names, just appear out of thin air?"

Tyrion looked upon the man who began to tremble again. "I do believe," Tyrion said, looking up at the ceiling with a thoughtful look, "such embezzlement is punished by several years in jail under Braavosian law, is it not?"

"... What do you want?" Noho asked, defeated. Tyrion smiled, and poured the banker another goblet of wine.

"Why... For some of the same courtesy you grant the North, of course. Some supplies, some schematics-"

"Gunpowder?" Asked Noho in disbelief. "You really _think_ you can change the course of this war if I bring you some _gunpowder?"_ He shook his head. "The North is _winning,_ in case you hadn't noticed, little Lord! Even if I could deliver you a thousand barrels of the stuff, it wouldn't change facts!"

"You're quite right," Tyrion said, "it wouldn't change things with the North at all... But I'm not planning on using it against the North." He glanced at the banker with a grim smile. He was going to use it against the Stormlands... And then use _them_ against the North.

What else could he do? What could any of them do?

 **Omake -** **Tyrion and the Pyromancer's Horrifically Awesome Invention**

Tyrion Lannister had seen things that had scared him before.

The view from one of the Vales 'Sky Cells' for example - during which he had made a mental note to have another talk with the clever young Theon if he ever saw him again about those 'parachutes' he had demonstrated at Winterfell and his insistence that he would -eventually- perfect it to allow something called 'base jumping' from The Wall that sounded terribly suicidal to him ... but only seemed to light a gleam in the eyes of the young Arya Stark.

There was also the time he had found himself alone with Bron facing a number of hill tribe warriors determined to kill him, with only his rapid assurances of weapons and equipment to take back to the Vale staying their hands. Too bad they had mostly died trying to charge down one of the Boltons 'Bolters'.

And of course, the look on his Fathers face when he had been told about Tysha ... well ...

But he had never _quite_ felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in this way before as he looked into the perhaps not quite sane eyes of Hallyne the Pyromancer.

"You ... have combined _gunpowder_ with _wildfire?"  
_  
The 'have you _lost your fucking mind_ ' went unsaid but was well carried by his eyes, he thought.

"Yes yes my Lord!" the madman grinned. "Is it not wondrous!?" the other said, holding up what appeared to be a ceramic pot quite similar to the 'grenades' used by the North to such grim and grisly effect these days, indeed with much the same sort of fuse attached to it. And every time the man moved the little ball around, Tyrion felt a year of his life drain away - but he dared not try to reach out and stop the man lest he misjudge ... and kill them all.

"I suppose, in the same way that a Dragon would be wondrous to a man standing in front of it, before it decides it wants a quick hot meal" he replied dryly.

"Fear not my Lord, you are quite safe" the other laughed ... and Tyions heart simply _stopped_ then as the man suddenly drive the clay pot down into the table in front of him with an almighty _crack_.

Tyrion existed for an unknown amount of time in that horrible moment, brought out of it by a strangled noise he had _never_ heard Bron make before in his life.

"As you see!" the insane Pyromancer smiled at their reactions, "this is perfectly stable!"

 _But_ you _are not_ Tyrion thought as he _somehow_ kept his cool and prevented himself from destroying his very expensive pants in a moment of pure bowel clenching terror. "Very well, explain this to me"

"Oh it is quite amazing My Lord. Based on the work of Theon The Clever in the North - such a remarkable talent for fire and flame! It has taken some ...experimentation... but a mixture of five measures wildfire and ninety five measures of a mixture of gunpowder and what Lord Greyjoy calls 'stabilizing agents' filled into this clay pot no larger than this. When this fuse reaches its limit, the gunpowder is set off like a normal 'grenade' but for _this_ device, oh yes, the explosion is sufficient to ignite the Substance that has soaked through it all. The force of the explosion also throws the burning mixture out, adhering to anything and burning ... burning! Melting wood, stone... even steel... and, of course, flesh!. Oh how it melts flesh!"

Tyrion was not sure what was worse at that moment. The fact that this man was in charge of the most dangerous weapon in all of Westeros ... or the fact that he needed to _rely_ on said man. Said man busy looking almost like he was having a religious experience as he described the effects Wildfire had on everything as he all but ... petted ... the clay ball.

 **Omake – Shit and Fire both flow.**

 _King's Landing, 299 AC_ ****

Bron snorted as he and Tyrion watched barrels of explosives being stacked. "Nice little pile of doom, m'lord. Just got one question." ****

"I'm sure you've got a lot more than one, Bron, but let's deal with what's most pressing on your mind," sighed Tyrion. ****

"Alright. You'vwe got all this lovely black powder, ready to blow up like the Doom of Valyria all over again. Thing is, it don't do you much good sitting here. How exactly are you planning on hurting Stannis with it?" ****

Tyrion nodded. "Bron, my mercenary friend, you make an excellent point. We have the weapon, but what we need is ..." he frowned. What was that phrase Theon used in Winterfell? Aha! "A delivery system." ****

"Oh," said Bron in sudden understanding. "You'll mail it to Stannis, and set it to blow up when he opens the parcel?" ****

Tyrion blinked. "What? No, you fool. What I mean is, the Northerners have their thunderers: cannon, Theon calls them. He uses them to propell balls of iron at our troops, sometimes hollow balls packed with more powder, set alight to explode amonst our forces. We need our own cannon, to shatter Stannis' armies and ships far beyond the walls." ****

"Okay, that makes sense. Now, where, exactly, are we gonna get some of Theon bloody Greyjoy's toys?" ****

"Yes, yes, he's unlikely to sell us any, even if we could get ships north in time to purchase them, and if Father has captured any of a decent size, he's not told me about it ... and wouldn't send them if he had." He ran his fingers through his lank, blonde hair. "Right, what exactly is a cannon? It's a tube of metal, closed at one end. You shove powder and an iron ball down the tube, light the other end, and run for your life." ****

"Wonderful. Now, how are you gonna go about making those marvelous tubes, since you've got all the metalworkers in the city making your great bloody chain for the harbour?" ****

"I know, I know, I'm thinking! There's got to be something here we can ..." Tyrion blinked. Long tubes of metal ... his mind flashed back to his first, official post at Casterly Rock. "Quick, Bron! We need to get to the sewers!" ****

"Why?" asked Bron, trudging after his short employer. "Do you really need to shit that bad?" ****

*** ****

Workers pressed into service had no idea why, when the city was preparing for a siege, the acting Hand wanted as much copper and lead piping ripped up from the city's delapidated sewer system. They didn't care: they were being paid (mostly in rations) and weren't being issued swords and shoved onto the walls. They just wanted all the high folk to call the whole thing off, and take their armies home, prefereably far away. Since they weren't about to get that wish granted, they focused on doing as they were told.

 **Omake: Winter Still**

 **Kevan**

There were times Kevan enjoyed being at his brothers side. This was not one of them. He breathed deep before knocking on the door to Tywin's solar.

"Enter."

He stepped through and noticed Tywin thumbing through _The History of the Greater and Lesser Houses_.

"Good reading brother?"

Tywin looked up. "Necessary. I'm cross referencing what we know about northern production with this list."

"For what purpose?" Kevan took his seat as his brother motioned for the cupbearer girl to bring him wine.

"If we can co-ordinate with the Greyjoys, we might be able to smash their ability to make these weapons. If we do, eventually, the North will run out of supplies. We outnumber them -"

"You mean to flood them with soldiers, send so many peasants their way that even if they kill a hundred thousand they'll end up exhausted."

Tywin nodded. "Despite their recent advances the fact remains that the North is simply poorer than the south. Most of it is cold and barren, it just can't feed as many people as we can. Once their factories are destroyed, we'll be able to fight them in a manner of our choosing and then we will destroy them for this insult."

They were silent for a few moments, save for the sound of the girl shuffling and Tywin flicking the pages of his book.

"Brother. This won't work."

Hard eyes jumped at him, the way Kevan knew they would. He continued regardless.

"It requires too many moving parts. There are too many unknowns, too many things we need to go perfectly. Not to mention even as we speak the Greyjoys are being pushed back from the North; and their current heir is the man largely responsible for the North's victories."

The girl stood still, a silent witness to history. _I wonder if she'll tell her children about this._ Kevan thought.

"And what would you have me do?" Tywin whispered, hissed almost.

"Peace."

"Peace." his brother spat.

" _Peace_. Let Robb Stark keep the trident and everything North. Let us focus our attention on Stannis and Renly."

Tywin stood and stared out the window, hands clasped behind his back. "You would have my grandson be King of half a kingdom."

"For a time. Through Winter and most of Spring. While we defeat the Baratheon brothers, and while we begin production of our own thunderarms. We can hire braavosi immigrants from the North to teach us how to set up workshops, and I'm certain that we can hire soldiers to teach us how to train our troops in warfare of this kind. Let Robb Stark be King of Winter, when Summer comes, the Seven Kingdoms will be whole again."

"And what will our Bannermen say? What will the Tyrells, the Stormlanders, the Dornish say? Catelyn Stark took my son hostage, Eddard attempted a coup, and now his son has conquered half the Realm. In light of that, what's to stop any of the rest from simply declaring their independence or worse, kneeling to the Young Wolf? If I cannot protect my family, if I cannot ensure their inheritance, _why in the name of the Gods should anyone follow me?_ "

Kevan swallowed. "Those are legitimate points my lord. But the fact remains, we cannot win this war. And you have to ask yourself what matters more: winning, or your pride?"

Tywin turned, green eyes burning with hate. He dropped his head, closed his eyes, and spoke.

"Girl. Fetch the maester."

 **Omake -** **Aftermath of King's Landing and Stannis loses another Venture**

 _299 AC, Dragonstone_

Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King in the Narrow Sea, King of the Painted Table, and Azor Ahai Come Again looked up from where he sat, staring at the ornate table in front of him, shaped into the form of the Kingdoms he should be ruling. Since the devastation of both his naval and land forces in the ill-fated assault on King's Landing, there seemed to be little else _to_ do. Ser Davos Seaworth, his Hand and trusted advisor, stood nearby, almost radiating his worry and concern for his soverign, but Stannis was in no mood for conversation.

 _I was close, so close to victory. And then that damned Lannister Imp sprung his traps, burning my ships, shattering my army_. He could still feel the horror of leading the amphibious assault, watching his men be felled by invisable bullets, blown apart by tiny bombs dropped from the ramparts above, shredded by the shotguns of the Imp's sally force. Still, he could have pushed through, could have won ... if Tywin's sellsword levies hadn't arrived to drive off his demoralised and disorganised forces.

So, he returned to what had become his home ... or perhaps, his haunt, as though he were only the ghost of the king he had been before. _Ser Davos still believes. Melisandre, as well. The rest ..._ What few loyal forces had retreated with him, most were still in shock, but already there was grumbling, the men losing heart in their cause.

A commotion at the door drew him from his brooding. Rising from his seat, he gestured for the doors to be opened, and his men-at-arms entered, prodding a man before them who smelt like the sea. "Your Grace, this man's ship docked at the harbor three hours ago, and came ashore with a party of men," reported the senior knight. "When our officers investigated, we learned he was a Northman, as were his crew. He claims to be here to trade."

"Aye, and that's what a trader does, mate," the sailor insisted, only to be cuffed about the head by the man to his left. "Hey!"

"You speak to Stannis, First of His Name, the True King of Westeros! Speak with respect and reverence!"

He snorted. "Far as I care, there's only one King that matters a damn, and that's Robb Stark, King in the North!"

The guard snarled, raising a mailed fist to strike again, but Stannis raised a hand to stop him. "Can't get sense out of a senseless man, Ser Caran." As the knight bowed his head in aknowlagement, Stannis stepped forward and met the ship's captain's glare. "Robb Stark is a rebel and a traitor. King Robert was my elder brother, his wife bore him bastards sired by her brother: I am his heir, and by law and custom ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. The Stark boy will bend the knee, soon enough." Despite his recent setbacks, he still believed that. Had to believe that. The captain continued to glare, but didn't respond, aside from a mild snort. "You claim to be a trader: what's your business?"

The sailor straightened up. "I'm Alfred Farrows, master of the Venture, out of White Harbour. Lord Greyjoy put a call out for more obsidian, as much as he can get, and offering good silver for it, too."

"Balon Greyjoy is another traitor and pretender," snapped Stannis, and Farrows shrugged.

"So? It's young Theon I'm talking about. Anyway, I've been on the White Harbour-Dragonstone run for a few years now, mostly trading in machine tools, lathes, threshers, power looms and the like for your black glass. No idea what the Greyjoy wants it for, but like I said, he pays." His expressiong grew sharper. "Since the word is you're fighting the Lannisters, I've got a cargo of finished goods to trade for the stuff, such as king at war might need: swords, breastplates, helmets, wool cloaks and tunics, boots, canned food and canteens. A few crates of muskets and shotguns, too, along with some kegs of black powder and moulds for ammunition. Thought we could strike up a deal."

Stannis met his gaze for a moment, then sighed. "You're right: I do need all that you named. Unfortunately," he said seriously, "I also require your ship, and the services of your crew." He hated the thought of just impressing the poor merchant, but after his losses ... he needed every ship, every sword, even every thunderer, if the Northerner was being honest about his cargo. _Besides: he's a traitor, serving a rebel. His ship is forfeit anyway: he should be grateful I'm willing to allow him to continue to sail it ... with a proper guard of Royal troops on board, of course ..._

"You'll be compensated after the war," added Ser Davos, "But until then, we'll have to impress your crew and take your ship and her cargo into our service. If you swear to serve your rightful king with honour, His Grace will reward you after his victory."

Farrow's eyes widened in shock. "Hey, now, there's no ... you haven't got the right!"

"He is Azor Ahai," came the serene tones of Melisandre as she entered the room, her red hair flowing down her back, a few shades darker than her dress. "He has every right to command: you are bound to obey." She glided across the floor. "All that matters is the choice: do you serve the Light, or the Dark? The warm glow of the flames, or the endless cold of the shadows?"

Farrow snorted. "You're that Red God priestess, ain't you?" He grinned savagly. "Hot or cold? Lady, I'm from the North: the cold is where we live! And fire?" His grin grew wider. "We made fire our bitch!"

Before the guards could strike him, there was the sound of thunder from the harbour ... then again. Stannis frowned. "What was that?"

The Northman laughed. "That was probably your men trying to take command of the Venture ... and my first officer giving his reply. She may be just a merchant carrack, but my lady carries an even dozen twenty-six pound carronades: sounds like your men got the ol' whif of grapeshot," he said with the air of a man quoting another. "You think I'd sail an unarmed ship into these waters, what with the pirate scum you've got working for you? Guess that answers the question as to whether or not it's worth trying to trade with you lot: by the time they get home, they'll have spread the word that the stag's got as much honor as the lion - agh!" He fell to one knee, a spearbutt slamming into his kidney.

"Another traitor: a pity," said Melisandre. "You will discover the true wages of betraying your God and your king: such as you deserve to be given to the fire."

"Guess it's your Targ blood," gasped Farrow, "Enjoy burning folk like mad ol' Aerys? Last time a king did that to a Northman, bastard lost his -" he fell as a knight smashed him to floor with a steel gauntlet.

In the distance, far below and increasingly out to sea, the _Venture_ sailed off, her speed increasing as she shook out more sail, her gunports continuing to speak in flame and smoke, smashing aside any Royal Navy forces that tried to halt her as she fought her way to the open sea and freedom.

It would be a long time before any more Northern trade vessels tried docking at Dragonstone.


	9. XXI, XXII

**XXI: Fathers and Daughters**

 _AC 299, Casterly Rock, The Westerlands  
_

Arya had never been to the Westerlands before, but she'd heard plenty about them. Mountainous, rich country, with gold and copper flowing out of the mines. And Lannisport, well-Who hadn't heard of that city? The largest in Westeros save for King's Landing itself. A busy, thriving seaport with hundreds of thousands of people going about their business. Living their lives. Working, loving, murdering, raising children, dying...

It stretched out before her from the patio on Casterly Rock, and she imagined it looked like a model city. The kind Theon and Robb had built to show off a few improvements to Winterfell to Father. She wondered if this view shaped the Lannisters: To view the world as a bunch of toys and models, easily shaped or thrown away as they needed. As they wanted.

"Laying down on the job, girl?" Asked Tywin, and Arya managed to resist jumping in fear. She looked over at the Lord of Casterly Rock, her enemy... Her captor.

"Just... Admiring the view, my Lord," Arya quickly excused herself. "It reminded me a little of... Of home."

Tywin nodded. "Mm... White Harbor, yes?" He asked. Tywin walked up to the balcony's edge, his hands on the stone railing. "Ha... The sea air is refreshing, I will admit." He glanced at Arya, who was smoothing down her red serving dress and fiddling with the apron. "It tends to refresh people's skin... I suppose you stayed inside most of the time?"

There was the expected challenge in his voice to her story. Arya pulled up the right response.

"No, I just was in the mountains or forests a lot," Arya said quickly. "I didn't like the ocean very much... My father didn't like it either. Reminded him of bad times."

Tywin nodded a bit, seemingly satisfied. "Mm... I suppose we all have places that are filled with regrets," he said, a bit softer in tone. "Places we avoid..."

Arya made to head out, maybe work on her plan to kill him. If only Jaquen was here, that would make things so much easier-

"Stay. Sit for a while," Tywin said. Arya turned and looked at him. The old man gestured to a chair. "Sit."

Arya walked to the chair, and sat down. She fidgeted a bit, the dress uncomfortable. Tywin raised his pale eyebrows.

"Not fond of the dress, I take it?" He asked. Arya shook her head.

"I don't like them," Arya admitted. Tywin laughed.

"I need my servants to look presentable. You've accomplished that, very easily," he complimented her.

"Thank you, my Lord," Arya managed, "but I'd much prefer pants."

Tywin laughed. "Ah yes... I suppose. Northerners have taken to such fashions, haven't they? Another of Theon Greyjoy's innovations?"

Arya fidgeted again. The old man looked at her intently.

"I can't imagine how shocking it was... All these wonders flying out of the woodwork, appearing almost overnight. Older kings and lords had introduced reforms and laws and didn't get _nearly_ as much accomplished. Many got overthrown," he was circling her, resting his hands on the back of her chair. "As if by magic, your world changed... And the North adapted. Even thrived. Do you know why that is?"

Arya licked her lips. "Would you not know, my Lord?" Arya asked.

Tywin shrugged, looking out over the city. "I have guesses," he said. "Little more than supposition... But, based on the timeline of events, I would say... He simply overwhelmed you. He had the ear of Lord Stark, Lord Stark wanted to make his people rich, and so it was."

"It wasn't just that," Arya said, a bit defensively. Tywin raised his eyebrow at her, looking down. Arya felt rather like she was trapped underneath a lion's gaze, between his paws.

"Oh?" Tywin asked. "What was it, then?"

Arya grimaced... But proceeded. "Theon Greyjoy first convinced the local lords it would make them richer," she said, "and then he convinced the smallfolk it would make their lives better. He invested in schooling them, in teaching them how to use his wonders, and make their own. He offered chances to people who would otherwise never have the ability to make something of their own, and they took it. Many failed, but most succeeded."

"Ah... A champion of the people, then?" Tywin asked softly. "Beloved by the smallfolk?"

Arya nodded. Tywin smiled, amused.

"I take it your father benefited from his largesse? His... Granting of opportunity?"

Arya nodded again. "He did, yes," she said softly, looking back at the city. Tywin looked out as well, and sighed.

"Such men usually have ulterior motives," Tywin said. "Not always, but often."

"His motives were to make the world a better place," Arya said, a bit defensively of one of her favorite people. Tywin smirked.

"He wants to save the world? With fire and steel?" He sighed. "My armies have been destroyed. Their bodies are returned to us daily, in North-built boxes. My _son_ is his king's prisoner, as are many of my other kinfolk."

Arya wanted to rage. Rage about her father's head on a spike. Rage about her sister's bondage. Rage about how they _started this war,_ and it wasn't _fair..._ But she held her tongue.

"He threatens to destroy everything I've created," Tywin finished. "Everything I've fought for... I will _not_ let that happen."

"Is that why you wish to make peace, my Lord?" Arya asked, unable to stop herself. Tywin smirked.

"You do listen to a great deal, don't you? Like a cat stalking around," he said. "I will have to get you a bell."

Arya scowled, but said nothing. Tywin looked over the city again, and sighed.

"War isn't all battles between armies... it is everything else, too. Talking too, is a weapon of war."

"War is merely the continuation of politics by other means," Arya said. Tywin chuckled.

" _Sayings of Larys Strong_... Your father got his hands on his book, then?" Tywin asked. Arya fidgeted again.

"Books are very common in the North," Arya said. "Thanks to printing presses... Surely you have one yourself, my Lord?"

"I do," Tywin admitted. "That book though is usually restricted to the interest of nobles... _And_ their libraries."

Tywin walked out to the balcony again, his back turned. Arya slowly rose up, trembling a bit.

 _This is it,_ she thought. _There are no witnesses... One good shove...  
_  
"The Starks were very generous with their library," Arya said, taking a few steps. She was almost there... Almost there...

"I suppose it's little wonder Littlefinger failed to get his claws into them," Tywin mused. He turned his head, and Arya redirected her path to walk up to the railing. She set her hands on the stone, gripping it as she forced her eyes to the horizon. Tywin watched her for a moment, before looking back out.

"Get back to work," Tywin said, not unkindly. "I will see you at supper."

"Yes, my Lord," Arya said softly, bowing her head. The Lord of Casterly Rock turned and left, leaving Arya to grip the stone hard enough her knuckles turned white.

 _Next time... Next time…_

 **XXII: Roses and Thorns, Part 1**

 _AC 299, Storm's End, The Stormlands_

\- - - - __

Amarda Honn was the second born daughter of a minor merchant house in the North who had liked to read. But because her eyesight was bad, she had to read everything with her nose to the pages. After a while, she wondered if it was worth it-She would never become a maester, or a lord, just something to be married off in trade. Despite her handling her father's accounts. Despite her being far too bright for the dull men who courted her. __

Then Lord Theon Greyjoy had seen her, as he was talking to her father. He walked over, and Amarda sighed as she knew what was about to come out of his mouth: __

"Is there something wrong with your eyes?" He'd asked. __

"No, I simply love the smell of paper and ink," she said back dryly. Her father had nearly had a fit, begun hastily apologizing... And Lord Greyjoy had smiled. __

"I might be able to fix that, unless you would prefer the smell you have," he said. She raised an eyebrow, again ignoring her father's blustering. __

"And what would it cost me?" She asked. __

"I need an assistant to keep track of things," he said. "And one to fix problems. Pay is good, and you get to see and get out of here." He glanced at her father knowingly, who shut up and tried smiling. "Unless you'd like to stay-?" __

"That is a stupid question," she said. Theon grinned. __

"So it is..." __

"I'll have my things in a minute," she said, and she'd left that day. __

It took some time for Theon and his maester friend to test her with all sorts of lenses in front of her eyes, but eventually, the world swam into view. Everything was clear, especially her dear books. And she'd never looked back. __

Proper ladies at court were supposed to be demure and humble: Theon had told her to be polite only when she had to be. The rest of the time? Cut loose and cut down people's stupidity. __

She felt like Lord Theon's sword. In business deals, he was usually the softer, kinder person. Trying to be reasonable. He let her loose to express what he dare not say himself. The Sword and the Shield... __

And while she had entertained romantic notions about the handsome lord a few times... Okay, maybe more than a few, he had always gently rebuffed her. He had too much to do to be busy with romance, he'd said. __

He had to save the world... And Amarda Honn decided she too would save it. __

First things first though. Deal with the Baratheon brothers... And Lady Stark herself. __

"I do not understand why Theon insisted you come with me," Catelyn muttered again to Amarda, as their party rode with Renly Stannis to the meeting point by the sea. "I have dealt with lords and ladies all my life." __

"So have I, Lady Catelyn," Amarda said respectfully. "But even a genius like Lord Greyjoy relies on me... Would it not be prudent to have every advantage you can get?" __

The Tully lady, and widow of Lord Stark, grimaced a bit. "There is a difference between experience and, well... Growing up with it," she said as politely as she could. Amarda raised her eyebrows over her glasses, and peered over her lenses at the older woman. Catelyn actually shrank a little, but scowled back. __

"I will take your counsel... If I wish," Catelyn said. "That is my right." __

Amarda mentally sighed. Renly chuckled at the exchange, though he'd been trying to look like he hadn't been listening. And of course, Brienne of Tarth was as stoic and focused as ever. She was so _tall..._ It was unnerving. Yet part of her was mollified that another man besides her lord saw the value in women beyond them baring children. Perhaps Renly would be a good bet. __

Renly held up his hand, and the group came to a halt. Before them, under banners of fiery stags surrounded by hearts, was the hardest looking man Amarda had ever seen. He seemed carved from the very searock, with his stern gaze and tall, proud posture. It could only be Stannis Baratheon. And beside him, on a horse as regal as a queen's, sat a woman in red. Amarda's eyes narrowed. Renly smiled broadly, and spoke. __

"Can that truly be you?" He called. The hard man stared back. __

"Who else might it be?" __

"When I saw your standard, I couldn't be sure. Whose banner is that?" Renly asked. __

Stannis shook his head. __

"My own," said Stannis. __

Renly smirked, looking smug. __

"I suppose if we use the same one, the battle _will_ be terribly confusing," he said, as though making a clever joke. "Why is your stag on fire?" __

The red woman smiled, and Amarda felt her skin crawl. __

"The king has taken for his sigil the fiery heart of the Lord of Light," she spoke. __

"Ah, you must be this fire priestess we hear so much about," mocked Renly. "Mm, brother... now I understand why you found religion in your old age." He added a lascivious eyebrow wiggle. __

"Watch yourself, Renly," Stannis growled. __

"No, no, I'm relieved. I never really believed you were a fanatic. Charmless, rigid, a bore, yes, but... but not a godly man," Renly went further. The red woman huffed. __

"You should kneel before your brother. He's the Lord's chosen. Born amidst salt and smoke," she said, her eyes gleaming slightly. Renly snorted. __

"Salt and smoke? What is he, a ham?" Renly asked. __

"That's twice I've warned you," Stannis growled. __

"Listen to yourselves. If you were sons of mine, I would knock your heads together and lock you in a bedchamber until you remembered that you were brothers!" Catelyn Stark scolded them. Amarda stared in disbelief at her Lady. __

 _What,_ she thought. __

"It is strange to find you beside my brother, Lady Stark. Your husband was a supporter of my claim. Lord Eddard's integrity cost him his head, and you sit beside this pretender and chastise me," Stannis bit back, his eyes steely and hard. __

"We share a _common enemy,"_ Catelyn Stark emphasized. __

"The Iron Throne is mine. By right. All those that deny that are my foes," Stannis said emphatically. __

"The whole realm denies it from Dorne to the Wall! Old men deny it with their death rattle and unborn children deny it in their mothers' wombs," Renly taunted. " _No one_ wants you for their king. You never wanted any friends, brother, but a man without friends is a man without power." __

"My lords and ladies," Amarda interjected, ignoring the shocked look Catelyn Stark wore, "perhaps we could focus on the actual _dispute?"_

All eyes turned on her, and Amarda steeled herself. She was being glared at by two Lords of the Realm, at once. __

"And you are?" Stannis demanded. __

"She is-," Catelyn tried, but Amarda moved her horse forward and interrupted. __

"I am Amarda Honn, assistant to Lord Theon Greyjoy," she spoke. "He asked me to accompany Lady Stark and facilitate in the negotiations." __

"There is _nothing_ to negotiate," Renly said, still smirking. "I have the greater number of banners, the greater number of _men._ And the greater number of friends." __

"I will give you one chance, in the name of our shared mother, to bend the knee to me," Stannis growled. "One chance, to the end of this night-" __

"Oh, what bluster is this?" Renly snorted. "Has religion given you this confidence to assume the throne?" __

"My Lords, _please,"_ Amarda interjected again, even as Catelyn tried to pull her back. "Let us debate facts, please?" She nodded to Stannis. "Lord Stannis does, according to the law and the claim of Cersei's Lannister's infidelity, has the right of legal succession to take the Iron Throne." __

"I should be addressed as 'Your Grace'," said Stannis curtly. __

"And what do the laws matter when greater arms count?" Renly sniffed. "When the hearts of _men_ want _me,_ and not him? A broiled lobster!" __

"Lord Renly, I appreciate your candor," Amarda managed, ignoring Stannis, "but you set a dangerous precedent. The previous King won his throne through rebellion and civil war. Would you have this be the _normal_ state of the Seven Kingdoms? Whoever has the greater number of men, the larger army, gets the throne? Such thinking is madness. It will devastate all Seven Kingdoms!" __

"Did not your Robb Stark declare himself 'King in the North'?" Renly countered. "It seems the civil war has already begun." __

"The King in the North seeks only independence, but could be brought back with the proper incentive! Fighting one another over this is not productive!" __

"And what, you would have me be subservient to my brother? Again?" Renly smirked. __

"I offered you the chance to become my heir, Renly," Stannis said coldly. "More than what you deserve." __

"And I believe I deserve the throne... And that you cannot stop me," Renly said with a smirk. __

"Please, don't," Amarda said quickly, "we can talk this through. Please, just _listen to me-!"_

"We will see, Renly," Stannis said, jerking on his reins, "we will see." He and his party rode away, the red woman smirking after them. Renly watched them go, and he sighed. __

"To think... I once loved him." He glanced over at Amarda with a raised eyebrow. "I see Lord Theon does not value respect in his subordinates," he said with a note of amusement. __

"I am _terribly_ sorry, Lord Renly," Catelyn said earnestly. "She was only meant to advise-" __

"And I _advised,"_ Amarda said tersely. "I advised to-" __

"Be silent!" Catelyn said angrily. Amarda scowled, but bit her tongue. Renly chuckled, and smiled at her. __

"Don't be hard on her, Lady Catelyn," Renly said kindly. "She was trying to do what she thought best... But in the end, a king must stick by his decisions." __

"I would remind you, Lord Renly," Amarda said, as gently as she could, "that you are not king yet." __

Renly smiled. "Not yet..." __

\- - - - - - __

Catelyn's tent that night was tense, as Amarda had to sit and endure her lady's anger. It was probably made all the worse by how she'd had to hold her tongue. __

"What exactly did you think you were doing?! Speaking like that in the middle of negotiations, as though you had the _right_ to just interject-!" __

"You weren't going to do anything, _My Lady,"_ Amarda shot back, glaring up at the red haired matron. "Indeed, you made things _worse."_

"You spoke above your station and insulted all involved-!" Catelyn tried, but Amarda returned fire with equal fury. __

"I was not the one who compared the two would-be kings to _children,"_ she hissed. "I was _trying_ to salvage the situation!" __

"It was not yours to interfere! I told you to _counsel me,_ when I wanted it!" Catelyn retorted. __

"Maybe you didn't want it, but you _needed_ it," Amarda responded. "I had to try to stop things from escalating! My station is _irrelevant,_ what matters is that I was _right!_ And you did _nothing_ but make things worse! _"_

Catelyn glared at her harshly. "You're lucky Renly is so _forgiving,"_ she stated. "A mere _merchant's daughter_ questioning Stannis in his party-He'd have you whipped." __

Amarda adjusted her glasses, and stood up. She had an extra inch over Catelyn, and used it as much as she could. "A _merchant's daughter_ who did more to keep the peace than the _Lady of Winterfell,"_ Amarda returned with venom in her tone. __

An indelicate cough brought both women's eyes to the door. There stood Petyr Baelish, smiling about as innocently as a wolf by a wounded deer. "I see the years have not diminished your fiery personality any, Cat," he said. He gave Amarda a respectful look and smiled. "If I may have some time with the Lady alone?" __

Amarda slowly nodded, and walked out of the tent. She sighed and waited, tapping her foot. The North Bannermen standing guard at the tent both looked anywhere but at her. __

There was a slap, and a gasp, and Petyr Baelish soon exited the tent. He looked forlorn, but soon covered it up with his usual smug mask. __

"Would you kindly inform Lady Stark that Lord Renly would like to see you both?" Petyr asked. Amarda very slowly nodded. __

"Of course, Lord Baelish," she said respectfully. Petyr chuckled, and shook his head. __

"Speaking back to two would be kings... I must admit, I admire your courage," he said. Amarda nodded. Petyr still did not go. "It's difficult, isn't it? Dealing with their arrogance, their presumption of superiority... Just because of an accident of birth..." __

"No doubt," Amarda said. Petyr smiled and rubbed his fingernails against his fine tunic. He gave her a charming smile. __

"I believe we are much alike," Petyr said. "I hear you manage the affairs of Theon Greyjoy... Financial and otherwise?" __

"I do many things for Lord Greyjoy," Amarda said icily. "He trusts me." __

"Ah yes, the heroic Theon the Genius," Petyr said with a nod. "The pirate turned genius..." His tone fairly dripped grease, "turned champion of the people. And yet... He has not sought me out." He looked at Amarda, seemingly innocent. "He's rebuffed me a few times... More than likely due to not knowing me very well." __

Amarda waited. Petyr smiled, as though he was about to lay a miracle of truth upon her like a sept preaching in the temple. __

"But of course... Such a relationship could be very profitable," Petyr said with a smile. "And I'm sure he'd value you... _Even more..._ If you were to arrange a connection between us?" __

Amarda stared at him. Petyr continued to smile. Amarda slowly smiled back. __

"You'd only be serving your lord-" __

"Employer," Amarda corrected. Petyr laughed and nodded. __

" _Employer_ to the best of your capability... Would you not agree? I could make this mission even more of a success, offer a small gift-" __

"I'm sure you could, my Lord Baelish," said Amarda calmly, smiling. "Wait a moment." She went back into the tent, ignoring the furious Catelyn, and came back out with a _massive_ stack of papers. She held them out, and a surprised Petyr held his hands out. Amarda dropped them into his hands, and the Master of the Coin tried to hold it up, unsteadily. __

"Of course, you will need to review these terms of contract with the Northern Guilds, see to the financial background check and audit by the Silver Bank, and of course complete the comprehensive review of business terms, titles and standards to achieve before official negotiations can begin," Amarda said, with a calm smile. Petyr looked at her incredulously, straining from the weight. __

"Are you _serious..._ Did you give this much paperwork to Renly?" __

"Of course not," Amarda said, looking absolutely innocent, "I was merely acting as an adviser to Lady Catelyn in a diplomatic mission. _This,"_ she said as she turned to go back into the tent, "is _business."_

\- - - - -


	10. XXIII, XXIV, XXV

**XXIII: Roses and Thorns, Part 2**

 _AC 299, Storm's End, Stormlands_

 ** __**Amarda walked into the tent to see Catelyn Stark bent over a table, her hands gripping the cloth atop it. Her shoulders shook.

"My Lady?" Amarda tried, as gently as she could manage. She looked over at a box Baelish had had brought in with him, sitting on the table near her. A knife had fallen to the floor near Catelyn's foot. The Lady Stark sniffed, and did not face her.

"... Unless it is important, I would prefer to be alone," she said flatly. Amarda weighed her options.

"... Renly wishes to see us," she said politely. Catelyn snorted.

" _Lord_ Renly," she corrected her. Amarda rolled her eyes.

"He prefers _His Grace,_ apparently," Amarda said. "With all the kings around, I decided to be very specific."

Catelyn looked over her shoulder, her mouth dropped open. She snorted in a bit of laughter, and then covered her face again with a handkerchief. Amarda's frown deepened, and she walked over. She looked at the box, and sighed as she finally recognized it. What it must contain.

"... I am sorry about your husband, Lady Stark," she said softly. "I truly am."

Catelyn looked at the table, silent. Amarda licked her lips, feeling awkward.

"I... I only met him once or twice, but he was a good man," she said. "A kind man. An honorable man-"

"As everyone says," Catelyn said, a bit bitterly. Amarda looked back at the empty doorway, and then to her lady. She sighed.

"... Lord Baelish offered me a bribe to get him into business with Theon," she admitted. Catelyn stared at her in surprise. "I didn't take it... I deflected it, rather." She nodded to Catelyn. "You could tell me what he said-"

"No," Catelyn said flatly. "It's not for you to know." She brushed her dress smooth with her hands. "We're keeping Renly waiting," she said, "let's go."

Amarda sighed, but kept her frustration in check. She pulled on her coat, and checked to make sure her small revolver was tucked into it's hiding place.

Theon had insisted she take it and keep it with her at all times. She was not the best shot, but a bit of thunder would probably keep people off guard. It amused her a bit-She could have assassinated both would be kings and ended the discussion there.

... Not really. Not that it would have been much better than how it went. Maybe she hadn't had a chance from the start, but she knew the first rule of the deal: Never give up.

They entered Renly's tent, where the would-be King was studying a map. His bodyguard was standing at his side, Brienne of Tarth ever vigilant. She nodded politely to them, and they to her. Renly looked up and smiled.

"Petyr Baelish was in here," he said. "Trying to offer me King's Landing... Can you imagine it?" He shook his head in disbelief.

"He tried to bribe me as well, My Lord," Amarda said. Catelyn glanced at her, but she stayed firm. "And failed."

"Wise decision," Renly said with a nod. "You know, it was him who betrayed Ned in the throne room."

Catelyn covered her mouth in shock and horror. "No... You... It can't be...!"

"My guard saw it himself," Renly said, shaking his head. "He captured him, a knife to his throat..." He sighed. "I'm sorry Catelyn, I truly am... I want to do justice for _all_ of us, please understand..."

Seeing that Catelyn Stark was shaken, Amarda very gently led her to a chair. The matron collapsed in it, shaking. Brienne moved to check on Catelyn, and the merchant's daughter moved away to let the Lady Knight handle her lady. Amarda looked at Renly, who wore a compassionate expression. She brushed her skirts off, and took a deep breath.

"My lady appreciates your candor, Lord Renly," Amarda said. Renly smiled.

"Still won't call me 'Your Grace?'" He asked.

"As I said before, my Lord, you have not won the Throne yet," Amarda said politely. "I prefer to speak as things are, not as I'd wish them to be."

Renly laughed. "A good trait... Perhaps I'll snap you up as my new Hand, if Theon will let you go." He looked at the map and sighed. "I will admit... I may be the popular choice for King, but... A king knows where he is lacking." He looked at Amarda. "You pointed it out beautifully, and without fear. I admire such traits."

Amarda flushed, and adjusted her glasses. "Thank you, Lord Renly... But again," she said, "let us speak of things that are, and not those things which are not yet. You wished to speak with us?"

Renly nodded. "I did," he said, hesitantly. "I understand your point of view... War is a terrible thing. A horrible thing. And to go through it again, barely twenty years after the last...?" He shook his head. "The people suffer... But I cannot refuse this opportunity. I cannot refuse the Throne, when it is so _close!"_

"Then would you prefer to be known as a wise and kind king, who united his realms? Or one who slew his kin and gained his power through strength alone?" Amarda argued. "You need to reach out to Stannis again. Try to _make_ him see reason-"

"Do you really think such an appeal would work on him?" Renly asked flatly. "It failed once already."

"It failed because that was not a negotiation; that, my Lord, was a pissing contest," Amarda said defiantly. "You must _try_ to talk to him again."

"And if the only way he will join me is if I bend the knee to him?" Renly asked flatly. Amarda shrugged, thinking fast.

"Power rests in more than just a crown," she said. "Do you think Tywin Lannister is any less powerful just because he lacks a crown? You would be shaping policy, shaping the kingdom-"

"And appearing to bow whichever way the wind blows," Renly said flatly. He sighed, and rubbed his face. "... Nevertheless," he said, "I agree that our negotiation... Could have gone much better." He looked to her with a smile. "Would you sit in as the arbiter, Lady Honn? For the next one?"

Amarda nodded, feeling her chest unclench. "I would be honored to, my Lord," she said respectfully. Renly smiled, and turned to Brienne.

"Brienne! Call for my maester. I wish to send another message to my broth-"

Brienne's eyes widened in horror, as did Catelyn's. Amarda blinked at them, and looked back at Renly. What were they-?

A shadow with the face of Stannis was behind Renly... Putting a knife through his throat. Renly's eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell to the ground as the shadow vanished. Brienne gasped and ran to her would-be king.

"Your Grace... Your Grace!"

Catelyn knelt down, trying to stem the flow of blood... Renly's guards burst in, swords drawn.

"What's-" The first one saw their lord, and gaped behind his helmet plate. He pointed his sword at Brienne. "You... You _killed_ him!"

"Wha-No we didn't!" Catelyn insisted. "It wasn't us, it was-"

"TRAITOR!" The knight bellowed, moving to strike... Brienne went for her sword... And Amarda knew what she had to do.

She pulled out her revolver, pointed it at the ceiling, and fired.

 _BANG!  
_ ** _  
_**She lowered the gun as everyone stared at her.

"Now that I've got your attention," Amarda said dryly. The knight pointed at her shakily.

"Y-You murdered him, they murdered-"

"How?" Amarda asked flatly. "Look at Brienne's sword-Any blood on it? Brienne, hand him your sword."

Brienne scowled. "I'll not hand over my-"

"Hand it over!" Amarda ordered. "NOW!"

Brienne reluctantly pulled her blade, slowly. The knights tensed, but Amarda held her gun up threateningly. Brienne turned the blade around, hilt first, and held it out to the knight. He took it, and examined it.

"No blood... You could have wiped it off-"

"Look at the stab wound," Amarda pointed out. "Look! Does that look like the mark of a sword?"

"What the Seven Hells is..." Mace Tyrell himself came into the tent, and gaped in horror. "WHAT THE-!"

"Lord Tyrell, please calm yourself," Amarda said quickly. "Just allow me to explain-!"

Mace pointed his sword at them. "Arrest them! Arrest them now!"

Brienne moved to pull another blade from the rack-Renly's, to fight. Catelyn looked helpless and pale. Amarda quickly thought through her options... And sighed.

 _BANG!  
_ ** _  
_**She had fired into the ceiling again, and everyone stopped. She turned her gun around... And held it out to Mace Tyrell.

"Let us all calm down. There is no need to escalate this any further. We're obviously innocent, so we need to work this out together," she said. Mace Tyrell didn't take the gun. Instead, he and his knights gaped in incredulity. Amarda snorted.

"Or do you _really_ think that a king seeking allies would send his _own mother_ into Renly's camp to _assassinate him?"_ She pointed to Brienne. "Or that a woman he has known his _entire life_ would suddenly up and kill him? With a dagger? Since the wound was obviously not made by a sword?" She shook her head. "You can believe we are murderers, or you can look and think for yourselves to come to the proper conclusion."

The dungeon was dank, dark, and smelled terrible. Amarda was very reluctant to touch anything, so she stood in the center of the cell. Catelyn sat on the bench nearby, with Brienne (stripped of her armor). The tall woman scowled at Amarda.

"That went well," Amarda said softly.

"How?" Brienne demanded.

"We're not dead, are we?" Amarda asked. Brienne stared in disbelief. "And under the Code of the Storm Lords, we cannot be mistreated or molested... Besides, we're more valuable alive."

Brienne threw up her hands. "I could have cut through the knights and we could have escaped and-"

"And what? Been seen as the murderers of Renly?" Amarda asked flatly. Brienne fell silent, looking down at the straw covered floor. Amarda bit her lip.

"... I might as well be," Brienne said. "I _failed_ him."

"How could you have defended him against... Against whatever _that_ was?" Amarda asked, bending her knees slightly to look Brienne in the eyes. "It's not your fault!"

"A shadow monster," Catelyn said softly, her voice dry from lack of speaking. "A... A magic construct from Asshai... The followers of R'hllor can use such black arts..."

"Then it was no mistake it looked like Stannis," Brienne snarled. "His red priestess killed him..."

"And could kill anyone else he sees as a threat," Catelyn said numbly. She stood up, and took deep breaths. "Like Robb...!"

A torch floated into the hallway, carried by a guard. Following him slowly was a woman in fine garments, old and weathered like a beech tree. She looked up at the three, and sighed.

"My fool of a son has outdone himself again," she said. "All _balls_ , that one, no _brains."_ She looked over at the guard, and glared. "Well! Get them out, you fool!"

"But my Lady, Lord Mace told me-"

"Lord Mace has been sent to his room since he has forgotten how to speak as an adult!" The old women harrumphed. She nodded to the three women as the guard sighed, and undid the lock. It swung open, squeaking loudly with age, and Catelyn Stark smiled.

"Lady Olenna Tyrell," she said. Olenna nodded.

"Catelyn Stark... Tully blood is strong in you. All the sense of a fish in boiling water," she huffed. Catelyn bristled, but held her tongue.

Olenna then looked at Brienne. "Brienne... I am glad I did not have to tell your father you broke more of Renly's toys."

"My Lady," Brienne said solemnly. Olenna looked at Amarda, who fidgeted. She'd heard of the Queen of Thorns, but to actually meet her...

"And you must be the rude one," Olenna commented. "With eyes of glass."

"I'm shortsighted," Amarda explained. "They let me see."

"Then perhaps you can give a pair to every bloody else in the world," Olenna huffed. "Well? Come on out of this shithole. We have much to talk about... Much to talk about, indeed..."

 **XXIV: Diplomatic Relations, Part 3**

 _AC 299, Seagard, The Riverlands_

 ** __**Lord Jason had been as good as his word, keeping Balon in a dungeon fit for any prisoner. Asha had gotten quarters, though I had the Crannogmen and women keep a constant watch on her. With that done, I had taken my leave and gone to collapse for several hours in a featherbed.

When I awoke, I found some food waiting for me on the table next to me. I chewed it thoughtfully, before getting up, dressing, and heading into the castle proper.

I wandered the halls for a time, before I came across the Sept. The statues and the candles caught my eyes, and I went in to look around this church. I stood in the center, looking around at the statues bathed in the soft light. It was quiet here, silent and still. And despite being so far from home... Whatever I could call that now... It was comforting.

"So you've even abandoned our God then?" The silence was broken by my sister's voice. I turned to look at her, walking slowly into the sept. I spied one of the Crannogmen behind her, dressed in unassuming clothing but their rifle ever at the ready. I shrugged and shook my head.

"He was never really my God to begin with," I said. I looked around at the Seven. "Though I don't think I count these gods either."

Asha stopped short, and stared intently at me. Her proud swagger was, for the moment, gone. It was striking how different it made her look, and even sound: Nothing like a pirate princess, a ruthless warrior.

"Then what do you believe in, Theon?" She asked softly. "What is there beyond numbers and tinkering and wonders...?"

"Why do you care?" I asked softly. Asha shrugged, sitting on one of the benches in the sept. She crossed her arms under her chest.

"I'm trying to understand what happened... How you became this way," she said. "You told me so much about your childhood... About what you did, what you accomplished-"

"So did you," I said. I raised an eyebrow. "I could have gone without knowing how you lost your virginity."

"Consider it something to beat," Asha said dryly. She looked at me with seriousness in her eyes. "But really... Why? What... Brought all this on?"

I sighed, considering. I put my arms behind my back and paced... I watched the candle light flickering across the walls, and an idea arrived. One from my real world... My real life... If I could even call it that anymore.

"If I take a lamp and shine it toward the wall, a bright spot will appear on the wall," I said, taking hold of one lamp and holding it up to one of the seven walls of the sept. "The lamp is our search for truth, for understanding. Too often, we assume that the light on the wall is God, but the light is not the goal of the search, it is the _result_ of the search. The more _intense_ the search," and here I held the light closer to the wall, "the brighter the light on the wall. The brighter the light on the wall, the greater the sense of revelation upon seeing it. Similarly, someone who does _not_ search – who does not bring a lantern – sees _nothing_. What we perceive as God is the by-product of our search for God."

I set the lamp down and turned back to my sister, who was frowning deeply. I smiled and continued.

"It may simply be an appreciation of the light… pure and unblemished… not understanding that it comes from us. Sometimes we stand in front of the light and assume that we are the center of the universe – God looks _astonishingly_ like we do – or we turn to look at our shadow and assume that all is darkness. If we allow ourselves to get in the way, we defeat the purpose, which is to use the light of our search to illuminate the wall in all its beauty and in all its flaws; and in so doing, better understand the world around us..."

"... That didn't answer my question at all," Asha said flatly. I shrugged, sighing deeply and dramatically.

"I guess I feel that... The Seven, the Drowned God, the _old gods..._ They are the shadows of what we _want_ to see as God in the world. If we seek to find God, we must learn. Learn about ourselves, and about the world... And you know what I found out about the world?"

Asha waited. I sighed.

"That the world is filled with shadows, cast by people who replace what God wants with what _they_ want. They even twist and shape God to fit _them,_ when the world is so much more complicated. They don't care about that though-They want justification, and they find it in their own shadow. But what we need is less of shaping God to fit us, and us looking at the world to see what God would really want. And to me... God is the part of me to help this world. To make it better. I don't hold to any religion, as such... But I have faith that a true God would want us to make the world better, and not just kill ourselves or others."

"This from a man who makes weapons of war," Asha said dryly. I nodded.

"I'll admit, as the first adherent to my faith, I am already off to a terrible start," I joked. Asha laughed, and shook her head again. She looked at me with grey eyes and a small smirk.

"I guess I just... I didn't expect you to be like this."

"What?" I asked.

"Someone worth listening to," Asha said. "Though you _do_ prattle on."

"Okay, that I will admit to," I said. I sat next to her, and she didn't move away. "So... How would you feel about being the Iron Queen?"

"If you just give it to me, I doubt the Ironborn will respect me," Asha said. I nodded.

"Fair enough... But giving you cannons... You can understand my reluctance."

Asha nodded again. "Prudent," she said. "And we have a reputation for... Betrayal. When we see weakness..." She looked at me intently. "Or what we thought was weakness."

"For now, I just want the Ironborn to cease attacking," I said. "The North, at least. There's something bigger than all of us coming... And we'll need you when it comes."

"What's coming?" Asha asked. "End of the world?"

I shrugged. "Might be," I said softly. Asha stared at him. "You asked," I said.

"I did," Asha admitted with a grimace.

"You think I'm crazy?" I asked with a grin.

"I already knew you were, this just confirms how _mad_ you really are," Asha sighed. "... And I must be mad for going along with any of this."

"Least we're mad together," I said, patting her on the shoulder.

 **XXV: Diplomatic Relations, Part 4**

 _AC 299, Seagard, The Riverlands_

 ** __**Robb's party arrived at Seagard soon enough, a small host riding behind him. Most of his generals were busy down south, but Roose Bolton had come along. I wasn't entirely sure why-Maybe he was jockeying for more glory. I didn't know. I tried not to get too deep into his head.

He arrived in the great hall, and walked up to Lord Jason upon his throne. The older man grinned and stood up to bow to Robb. Robb waved him off.

"It's all right, Lord Jason. Please sit, you've done more than enough," he said.

"Your Grace! It is good to see you," Jason said earnestly. Robb smiled back, and nodded.

"Your gallantry and service is appreciated, my Lord," Robb said. "Thank you for your work..." He looked over and beamed as he saw me. He ran up and hugged me, and I hugged him. I groaned a bit as he tightened his grip.

"Urk...! Hello Robb... Nice to see you too!" I said. Robb laughed and patted me on the cheek.

"You crazy bastard... You actually did it," he said. "Two heirs of the great Realms! And the King of the Iron Isles!"

"Well, Asha's status is a bit... Ambiguous," I said carefully. Robb frowned and nodded.

"I get that... Lord Jason, if you will excuse us? We need to have some discussions in private," the King in the North said. Jason nodded and beamed.

"Not at all, Your Grace. I will prepare a feast, and send you notice when we are ready," he said. Robb nodded, and headed off with his cloak swinging behind him. I followed, and we ascended the steps to a private meeting room adjacent the great hall. I was not terribly surprised to see Asha was already there, staring at Robb intently as he stood by the table. Her Crannogman shadow still there, though his camouflage was now grey to blend in with the bricks of the castle.

It wasn't particularly convincing, but I suppose it made them feel better to blend in.

"Lady Asha Greyjoy... It is good to meet you at last," Robb said. He shrugged. "I wish it was not under these circumstances, but-"

"If you feel the need to be gallant, 'Your Grace', I suggest you stuff it up your arse," Asha said flatly. "I am not a shrinking weak lady, I am a warrior and captain. So dispense with your courtesies, unless your tunic is actually a _dress."  
_ ** _  
_**Robb stopped short, and stared at my sister. He looked at me, and back at Asha. He chuckled.

"And to think... I didn't see the resemblance," Robb admitted. He nodded to Asha, with the same smile a knight wore when his opponent gave him a good hit. "Lady Asha... I will cut straight to the point. The Ironborn must cease their war against us. You may stay neutral in the conflict, but attack the North or any of our allies, and we will kill your father and finish the job King Robert started."

Asha nodded. "Fair terms," she said. "I did send a letter to Pyke to explain that Lord Balon was held hostage, and I was treating with you."

"Is that what we're doing?" Robb asked. I elbowed my king, and he coughed. "Yes... Suffice it to say, Lady Asha... We have much bigger problems to deal with than you."

"Is it your tradition to insult your opponents in negotiations, when you want peace?" Asha asked flatly.

"You started it," Robb shot back. Asha smirked a bit.

"That I did," she said. She sighed. "To bend the knee to you so quickly will be difficult... Even with our losses to your cannons. I would need... Force, to assure I could keep the agreement."

"Cannons?" Asked Robb. "Why can't we simply provide you military support with our ships?"

"Because that will not get me the respect I need to take the Seastone Chair," Asha explained flatly. "I will merely be your puppet. The Ironborn would not respect me."

Robb sighed, tapping the table. "I'll have to consider it," he decided. "Think on it."

Asha snorted. "You'd be a fool to do otherwise," she said airily. She rose, and looked to her guard. "I will return to my room. Bring me my dinner when it is ready," she said. "Your Grace," she tossed back, as an afterthought, before she headed out the door. Robb and I watched her and her shadow go, the door slamming behind them. Robb looked over at me, sighing. I shrugged.

"I can get her a pair of glasses to make it better for you-"

"Theon!" Robb growled, flushing just a bit. "I am not... She is very...!"

"I would give you the 'treat her well or I'll kill you' speech, but that would be treason," I said with a grin. "That and she'd kill you before I could."

Robb sighed and looked down at the table. "Why did I miss you again?" The King asked.

"Because I'm your best friend?" I asked back playfully.

"I would have been better off with Ramsay," he muttered. "How is he, anyway? Going to use entrails for your wedding banners?"

"Funny," I said dryly.


	11. XXVI, XXVII, XXVIII

**XXVI: Blood and Smoke on the Water**

 _ **Riverrun, 299 AC**_ ****

The solar was silent as Theon sat across the desk from his King. Robb Stark studied first one message, then the other. The first was a letter carried by fast courier from his mother, curtesy of the Tyrells, describing the meeting of the Baratheon brothers, the horrifying murder of Renly, and their subsequent arrest then release by the lords of the Reach. The other was a copy of a report from the merchant vessel _Venture_ , sped up the Trident while the original returned to White Harbour, detailing the arrest of their captain, and the attempted impounding of their vessel, theft of their cargo, and impressment of their crew. He looked at these letters intently, his grey eyes hard as flint. Then he looked up, and gestured to his secretary, who leapt into action, gathering paper and quill. ****

The King in the North took a moment to compose his thoughts, then began. "To Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storms End, Lord of Dragonstone, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and self-styled King of the Narrow Sea. Word has reached Our court of your attempt to capture a ship that flew the Northern flag, specifically the merchant vessel _Venture_ out of White Harbour, with the intent to steal her cargo and press both her and her crew into your own service. This attempt is reported to have failed only due to the wit, skill and integrity of her officers and crew, yet their captain remains unlawfully in your custody. Up until this incident, there has been no cause for conflict between us, as we have shared an enemy in the Lannisters and their inbred, bastard puppet who sits upon the Iron Throne. We have had no interest in contesting you your right to claim that self-same Throne, as it has long since lost all hold over Ourselves, or those who serve Us. Nevertheless, your act of piracy is an insult to Our nation, and threatens to begin yet another war that will likely end in ruin for both our Houses. ****

"Worse," Robb continued, his voice cold, "We have reliable reports that you have committed acts of kinslaying and foul sorcery, bartering human sacrifices, the blood of your own bannermen and kin, for the aid and assistance of demons of shadow and flame, against all the laws of gods and men. Our own mother witnessed the shadow sent, presumably by that so-called Red Priestess you employ, to slit the throat of your younger brother ... a shadow that bore your own face, as reported by three reliable witnesses, including two ladies of high rank. That your lust for power and control has driven you to commit these acts horrifies Us, and raises significant doubts as to whether or not our two Houses can come to an amicable conclusion to our disagreements. ****

"Therefore, I must issue this ultamatum. Release the captain of the Venture, one Alfred Farrows of White Harbour, alive and unharmed. Issue a public and abject apology, to the captain, crew and nation of that vessel, in which you acknowledge your crimes and responsibility. Publicly and irrevocably renounce all claim to the lands and people who swear allegiance to the King in the North and the Trident. Reparations, in the form of obsidian and sulphur, will be made to Winterfel, in quantities to be decided later. The immediate return, if they should arrive in your custody during your war against the usurper Joffrey, of Our royal sisters, Sansa and Arya Stark, as well as Our family sword, the Valyrian steel blade Ice. Lastly, the sorceress known as Melisandre of Ashai, shall be repudiated and given over for trail, on the charges of regicide and consorting with demons. ****

"If these demands are not met within a reasonable time, then We must assume that our two Houses are at war. None of your ships may enter our harbours to trade. Our Navies will seek out, hunt down and capture, burn or sink any ship flying your banner. Once Our quarrels with the Greyjoys and Lannisters are concluded, We will turn Our eyes and forces to your own, and defeat your armies, tear down your walls, and cast your House into the dust. ****

"Do not think that these offenses you have committed will fade into distant memory: for I am King in the North ... and the North remembers. ****

"Signed and Sealed at My own hand, Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, King in the North and the Trident." ****

He shifted in his seat, fury in his eyes, but he maintained his cool as best he could. "Read that back to me," he said to his clerk, who bowed his head and obeyed. ****

"Are you sure you want to do this?" asked Theon quietly as the secretary rambled on, the King listening with half an ear for errors or points he would wish to change. ****

"I don't have a choice," responded Robb absently. "I can't allow Stannis to go around impounding our ships, or using his witch to assassinate whoever he wishes using magic. If I do nothing, then the Kingdom appears weak and irresolute ... and that is something we cannot afford." He took the parchment from the clerk, glanced over it, then poured some wax on the bottom. Carefully stamping his signet ring into the hot wax, he then picked up one of his steel-nibbed pens and scrawled his signature below. ****

"You're taking this a lot harder than you did Asha," observed Theon. "I mean, she's been raiding up and down the coast, but Stannis has only attacked the one ship." ****

Robb sighed, taking a last look over the letter. "I trust your judgement in regards to your sister. Moreover, I trust you." He held out the letter to Theon. "Have this sent to Dragonstone immediately," Robb ordered, then paused. "I cannot trust a man who uses blood magic and sorcery to murder his own kin." He turned away to look at the fire. "It had to be done," he repeated. ****

Theon cracked a grin. "Hey, can you at least imagine the look on old humourless Stannis' face when he reads all that? I don't think anyone's been that blunt to him since the old king died," he offered, and Robb managed to give a tight smile in return, but quickly went back to watching the flames. ****

"You know he'll say no, to each and every stipulation," Theon pointed out. "He can't afford to bend, even slightly. It will lead to _another_ war: and we've already got two or three of those." ****

He walked over to where Grey Wind lay next to the fire, and ran his fingers through the wolf's ruff, listening to his companion pant. "I know," he said softly. "I know." ****

Theon stood in silence for a moment, then made his bow, and left the King to have a few, precious moments of peace.

 **XXVII: Roses and Thorns, Part 3**

 _AC 299, Storm's End, The Stormlands_

\- - - - -

Amarda had not taken to the scientific part of Theon's education as well as others in his employ. It had frustrated her a bit, but Theon had comforted her by saying he just wanted her to have a basic _understanding._ She was handling business, after all-She needed to know how people and markets and the deal worked more than science. Still, she couldn't help but recall one particular bit of science she'd learn: About the bends.

Changing pressure too rapidly in the human body, going up and going down underwater especially, would lead to nitrogen build up in your blood vessels. You could easily die from such things. She'd learned it while Theon was experimenting with a "diving suit", and had to help rescue him. She'd been more focused on saving her employer from his own stupidity, but in such situations certain information stuck easier than others.

Right now, she was feeling like she was undergoing the bends in her mood and mind-Going from being seen as the would-be King's assassin and sent to the darkest dungeon... And now nibbling on a cake in a fine tent with Lady Olenna. Who had even pulled up a female bard who was thrumming her way through a familiar song.

" _I dig my hole you build a wall,"_ she sang, " _I dig my hole you build a wall... One day that wall is gonna fall..."  
_  
"I'm told it's a Northern Ballad," Olenna said, almost pleasantly. "Seems a bit depressing though-It was my understanding that the Wall falling is a terrible thing. I suppose even with all your progress and inventions, you still retain your Northern fatalism."

Seeing that the Queen of Thorns was speaking directly to her at the table, Amarda adjusted her glasses and shrugged.

"Not fatalism, exactly... Just acceptance."

Catelyn nodded, her hands in her lap as she sat primly at the table. Brienne of Tarth was beside her, looking forlorn and lost despite the food before her.

"And yet your genius and his minions have brought forth wonders even the maesters never dreamed of," Olenna laughed. "What an amazing contradiction. So strong, yet songs that taunt your fears. So advanced, and yet still following ancient traditions. Your _banks_ have been far more polite to me than my own moneylenders!" She sipped her wine.

"So what do you want with us, Lady Olenna?" Asked Catelyn. Olenna set down her wine and chuckled.

"So _direct..._ Can we not enjoy some music and some food first?"

"Your main goal with this is to get a feel for the two of us in an uncomfortable setting," Amara spoke bluntly. "And we broke first."

Olenna nodded. "Your lady did, yes," she said, nodding to the still pale Catelyn. "Though it is understandable. Her son is at risk... If a man is willing to kill his own brother for the throne with dark arts, he'll kill anyone else." She set her wine down and stared intently at Amarda. "It isn't too difficult to see that Stannis's ascension to the Iron Throne would be a disaster for all of us. Even more than the disaster we have right now."

"So what are you proposing, Lady Olenna?" Catelyn asked. "My son is not interested in the Iron Throne."

"No, but it's taken an interest in him," Olenna commented. "Which may be the best kind of king for it. One who doesn't see it as his birthright, one who doesn't want the glory and power-One who sees that pointy throne as a pain in the ass."

Catelyn sucked in a deep breath. "Even if he did... The Westerlands would balk under it. Dorne and the Vale would be indifferent... The Stormlands-"

"But the Reach would have an interest in that outcome," Olenna said with a smile. "And as it happens... I have a granddaughter who just became a widow... And dearly wishes to be Queen. Of the North, or of the Seven Kingdoms... She's a bit easygoing in that regard."

Amarda grasped the set up pretty easily. She looked at Catelyn, who was frowning. The Lady Stark looked back... And sighed, nodding. Amarda smiled.

"We would need to have them meet, first," Amarda said. "We do not want another situation like Cersei and Robert, my Lady."

"Oh nonsense," Olenna sniffed. "Cersei is a spoiled brat whose father didn't know any more about parenting than he knew how to shit gold."

"M-My Lady," Brienne gasped softly, as Catelyn managed a soft smile.

"My Margaery is a brilliant young woman, kind, intelligent-" Olenna went on.

"King Robb also appreciates women with spirit and fight," Amarda said. Olenna smirked.

"So he's not afraid of women speaking? Good. He's going to have to get used to that..."

\- - - - -

Catelyn Stark's tent was much lonelier than it was a few days ago. The majority of the Stormlanders had left, joining Stannis's army on their way to King's Landing. The Reach troops were still around, waiting for the final word from Lady Olenna. And Amarda was returning to see her Lady, contracts in her hand.

"My Lady, I've finalized a fair amount of paperwork," she said brightly as she entered. She saw Catelyn sitting at her table, staring at the box containing Ned Stark's bones. "Or... I can come back later-"

"No, please, come in," Catelyn said softly. Amarda obeyed, and sat the papers in front of her. Catelyn leafed through the papers, occasionally signing one on dotted lines.

"There are a lot of presumptions in this contract," she commented at last. "That Robb will agree to take the Throne... That Theon will share his technologies..."

"He is a King. His marriage, unfortunately, could not be strictly for love," Amarda said. She nodded. "But I have met Margeary..."

"As have I," Catelyn said with a smile, remembering the little show Olenna had put on for them. Have the bereaved Margeary come into the tent in her robe, speaking about the flowers for the funeral... She'd almost been fooled, but Amarda had noticed Olenna glanced at the door a bit too often for it to be coincidence.

"What do you think of her?" Catelyn asked, looking directly at Amarda. The girl adjusted her glasses.

"She's her grandmother's daughter-Kinder, not quite as thorny..." She smiled. "She'll see Robb is a good man... Not the kind to needlessly twist and manipulate. _Too_ much, anyway..."

Catelyn nodded and sighed. "I had hoped he could... Marry for love," she admitted. "I know my match with Ned was... Unexpected. But he was kind, and gentle, and honorable... And so warm when he trusted me. When we loved each other..." She smiled sadly, "when I realized it... I can't remember the exact moment. I just remember the feeling..."

Amarda stood a bit awkwardly. She hesitated, then rested a hand on her lady's shoulder. Catelyn looked at her... But smiled and rested her hand atop it.

"King of the Seven Kingdoms," she murmured. "I'll be the mother to the King of the Seven Kingdoms..."

"With enough luck, yes," Amarda confirmed with a nod. Catelyn glanced at her, and she shrugged. "I see things the way they are, My Lady. And right now, King Robb has not yet met his Queen to be... Nor has he met his future good mother. And the Iron Throne is not ours."

"No, but I think between the four of us," Catelyn said softly, "we can convince him to take that step." She smiled. "And if it doesn't work out with Robb, we can inflict her on Theon."

"My Lady!" Amarda gasped. Catelyn huffed.

"What? He surrounds himself with women with no sense of propriety. It might be very entertaining..."

Amarda laughed a little. Catelyn smiled, and stroked Amarda's hand.

"I am sorry for how I treated you," she said. Amarda nodded.

"Thank you, my Lady... You didn't have to say it. Your actions spoke loud enough."

"I _did_ ," Catelyn emphasized, squeezing Amarda's hand. "There's so much that goes unsaid in life..." She avoided looking at the box, "I just... I decided to not risk it being too late. This time..."

Amarda smiled gently. "Thank you, Lady Stark," she said.

"Now," Catelyn cleared her throat, and pulled her hand away, "we need to make preparations for the journey North... Have you seen to Brienne of Tarth? Poor girl..."

Amarda smiled. "I have... And I think you'll be pleased."

"Oh?" Catelyn asked, raising her eyebrows.

\- - - - -

"A job?" Brienne asked flatly. "I swore myself to serve _Renly-"  
_  
"I know," Amarda said, grasping the lady knight's hands in hers, "but he no longer requires it. There are others who do though. Many, _many_ others." She looked intensely into Brienne's eyes, "and I know Lord Theon would welcome you into his service."

Brienne snorted. "I am no sellsword."

"You wouldn't be a sellsword," Amarda emphasized, "you'd be a _knight._ A protector..."

Brienne frowned deeply. "Of...?"

"Of Lady Stark... And her family," Amarda said. "In this day, we need honorable people with swords and armor to protect them... And the Starks have lost so much. Please Brienne... _Ser_ Brienne of Tarth... Protect the Starks."

Brienne was silent. Amarda held her gaze.

"In the North ... is that possible? Would they let me ... be a knight? A real one?" She asked. Amarda shrugged.

"Lord Theon has the ear of his King... Why would he not?"

"... Renly did see the Starks as friends," Brienne said softly. She nodded. "All right... I failed one king before... But I swear, Amarda Honn... I will not fail another."

Amarda beamed. "Wecome aboard..."

\- - - - -

"You're having her serve as Robb's personal bodyguard?" Catelyn asked flatly. "My own son?"

"It was the only post suitable for her," Amarda said. "It is a duty she will take to, almost fanatically, after what happened with Renly. You can be assured Robb will be safe. It will also help solidify things with the Tyrells, as Margeary and Brienne are already friends."

Catelyn frowned. Amarda smiled.

"And it will be extremely amusing."

Catelyn scowled at Amarda... But her lip twitch gave her away.

"There is that, I suppose..."

\- - - - - -

 **XXVIII: Red Runs the River, Black the Blood**

 _AC 299, Near Rushing Falls, The Riverlands  
_

Ramsay Snow loved Theon Greyjoy. Before he'd met the young genius, he had resigned himself to murdering people just to pass the time. Hunting them down like he was a wolf, and they were sheep. Those who lacked the same _spark_ in their eyes-Merely prey, nothing more.

How foolish he'd been. The follies, the arrogance of youth. It was Theon Greyjoy's work, almost dizzying in its abundance, that showed Ramsay the true nature of the world: So many ways to hurt, so many ways to kill, and so many ways to live and help. Granted, he much preferred the former but he supposed balance was needed in the universe for any of it to make sense. As Theon had said in his "Newt Laws", for every action there was a reaction.

(Why he called them the Newt laws, he was unsure, but it was that spark of madness that Ramsay dearly loved about his lord).

It had inspired him to unlock the secrets of fire and steel, rock and liquid. And it had given him many, _many_ rewards, not just bestowed upon him by Theon. His beloved Salamander gun, for instance (which Theon called a "flamethrower"-Again, lovable eccentricities!) that let him burn people to death and enjoy their screaming. His "Gatling Gun" or Bolter, which allowed scores of men to be felled by turning a crank. And his greatest creations yet, while not strictly for warfare, allowed him to enhance it in ways he never thought possible.

And they were so _wonderfully_ loud! To make growls and roars from oil and metal! To make _flames!_ It was a dream come true.

Unfortunately, his creations were not perfect. Even now, disembarked from the ship that had dropped them off at Maidenpool, his war wagons were largely being drawn by horses. The engines he'd installed on them kept breaking down, or required more fuel than expected. It was sloppy and ruining the big surprise he planned for his Lord!

So there was only one thing to do: Prove the mettle of his work.

He sat in the armored cockpit of his lead wagon, scowling into the night as his driver nervously managed the reins. He'd sent his raven _an hour_ ago, where was it...?

"Captain Snow, sir!" Called the man atop the carriage. A moment later, he descended and handed a quivering raven to Ramsay. He took it, and read the message on it's leg. He grinned, and turned to both men.

"Set your course for 200! Direct all other wagons to follow!" He ordered. His lookout nodded as his driver changed direction, following the compass. Ramsay smirked, and looked out the iron shuttered-windows. His convoy was following in loose formation with him, the smaller, faster wagons on the outside, the bigger ones in the middle. He grinned devilishly and barked another order to his lookout:

"And inform the Band Wagon... I'll be joining them for this," he growled. "And they'd _better_ have the right song!"

\- - - - -

Saloman Peake was a minor knight in service to House Serrett, who in turn was sworn to House Lannister. And ever since the crushing defeat of the Mountain's Army at Golden Tooth, he'd kept his and his men's heads down as they held Tumbler's Falls. The Northmen and their fire weapons were terrifying, yes, but Peake had kept his forces together as best he could under the circumstances. He'd fed a fair amount of intelligence back to House Serrett, in hopes they could make use of it.

Riding at night was fraught with peril, but it was a crucial mission he was going on-A North Army balloon had been seen against the full moon nearby. Far out from the flank, it was obviously a scouting party trying to get the lay of the land. Why it was out at night, he didn't know-Maybe the Northerners had developed a means of seeing in the dark. It would not surprise him, the depth of their warcraft and sorcery. He'd even eaten some of their rations-And they were _good._ Better than what his men had been carrying around, anyway.

A Northern observation balloon, however, would be very useful to them. Give them more intelligence, more of an idea how all this magic worked. The longer it took the North to resupply and prepare for the next phase of the war, the more of a chance they had of winning it.

Or at least making some kind of peace.

The fires of the observation post vanished as they approached, but Saloman could still see the shapes in the trees. He directed his men to spread out, and zig zag on approach to make it harder to be hit. He readied his crossbow, and a few shots from fire arms whistled overhead. Too high, they couldn't see. He galloped up the hill, heading for the copse...

A red flare shot into the air behind them. He held his horse, and turned around. He heard rumbling... Roaring... And... Music?

Lit by lamps, several carriages barreled from around a hill. All with cheesebox-like tops with guns mounted in them, a few with small cannon... And one gigantic one, moving slowly under it's own power, steam and smoke huffing from it like a dragon on wheels.

That huge wagon had large, broad horns sticking out of it, and torches that flared with fire. And musicians strapped to it, playing instruments-A set of drums, a few horns, and various kinds of lutes.

The one up front though looked as though he'd been flayed-Red muscle and tendons visible all over him. It took Saloman a moment to realize it was cloth, painted to make the man look.. Flayed.

A man with a white mask, and a strange metallic wand covered in wire near his face. He strummed his stringed instrument _hard,_ and the fires blew. He let out a bellow, an unholy scream... That seemed to come from all the horns on the wagon. And his screams were accompanied by harsh, loud, terrifying music. Saloman just barely made out the lyrics.

" _Backinblack... Well, I'm back in black... Yes, I'm back in black~!"  
_  
Which is when the lead wagon opened fire with a Bolter, the gunner laughing maniacally and loudly enough to be heard over the music. Saloman's men ran screaming, they and their horses dying. Saloman himself was thrown from his horse, and crashed to the ground. The war wagons continued on, gunfire and flame and horrible, _horrible_ music filling the night.

A few of his men fired crossbows at the monsters, but they bounced off their black hulls. Useless... Useless...

And all Saloman could do was lay there, stunned, and prayed to the Seven they would not find him.

He'd heard the stories... He didn't believe them... How foolish he'd been.

That madman in the red... Could only be... The _Crimson Fucker.  
_

"YEAHHHHH! BACK IN BLAAAACK!" Ramsay bellowed, hitting the chords furiously. "YEAHHH... No, no, damnit!" He glared at his bassist as the Lannister men fled in terror before their guns. "Xanner, fucking HELL! You missed the change! You missed the fucking key change!"

"I-I'm sorry sir," Xanner stuttered, "the wagon's shaking all over the place and I'm-"

"Get it fucking right or I'll take away your fingers until you learn to fucking play!" Ramsay snarled. He shook his head and turned back to the battle. "Fucking _amateurs...!"  
_  
\- - - - - -


	12. XXIX, XXX

**XXIX: Diplomatic Relations, Part 5**

 _AC 299, Seagard, the Riverlands_

\- - - - -

The raven back from Pyke arrived earlier than expected. Frankly, I was impressed with the little guys-They could fly anywhere. And thanks to work with Luwin's spells and Qyburn's mad science, they could home in on anyone with the right equipment.

Naturally, we'd kept this little advantage to ourselves… Otherwise I would surely be covered in bird shit at all times of the day.

I took the message in Lord Jason's solar, and read it. Asha reached for it, and I held my hand up. She scowled, and then snatched the letter out of my hand.

"Hey!" I protested. Asha read through it, and grimaced.

"Kingsmoot…? They can't call a Kingsmoot," she said angrily. "Balon is still alive!"

"Yeah, but Uncle Euron isn't about to let that stop him, is it?" I asked dryly. Asha glanced at me in surprise.

"You remember Uncle Euron?"

"I remember his ship filled with mutes," I said flatly. "And he called his ship the _Silence_ … It's hard to forget something like that."

Asha nodded, leaning against a table. She stared at me intently. "Mutes he made himself," she said. She sighed. "He was banished from Pyke until Father is dead… Captured by Greenlanders, I suppose he's taking his chances now."

"Well we can't just let that happen," I argued. "You need to get to Pyke, Asha! Take the throne!"

"Given to me by Greenlanders?" Asha said dryly. "You think I'll ever be accepted? To say nothing of Euron… He'll have the support of the Drowned God priests and all the Ironborn."

"And you want to let your people get slaughtered?" I demanded.

" _Our_ people, or have you forgotten?" Asha asked flatly.

"I'm _trying_ to save _everybody_ , Asha," I emphasized. I sighed and rubbed my temples. Asha frowned and nodded. She gently rested a hand on my shoulder.

"We're a thorn in your side, a problem to be solved," she said, sounding a bit hurt. "... An enemy."

"I don't want it to be that way… But there's only so much I can do," I sighed. "Even being a King doesn't make you all powerful… Or a genius all knowing."

Asha smirked. "Humility? A rare trait in a Greyjoy."

"A bad one?" I asked. Asha chuckled.

"Different…" She sighed and glanced aside. "So different…"

I reached out and grasped her hand. "You're still my sister," I said. "As long as you're willing to be mine… I'll be yours."

"You barely know me," Asha said. "You've become a stranger to me."

"After all that talking we did?" I asked with a smile. Asha sighed and looked back to me. She smiled a little.

"It takes more than that to have a bond," she said. I nodded.

"I know… But we have the start, don't we?" I smiled. "Besides… We need to talk to Father."

"Oh, _now_ you call him Father," Asha sniffed. I shrugged.

"We're trying to do something to help him out here. He hates Euron… I'm hoping more than us," I said.

"What, you'd send him to negotiate?" Asha asked sarcastically.

"Of course not. But he could tell us how to get support from his supporters away from Euron…?" I suggested. Asha stared at me. "Look, he kept his throne. He had to know something, since he doesn't have Tywin Lannister keeping him on his seat."

Asha nodded. "I see… All right." She squeezed my hand back, and I smiled.

"Don't worry," I said. "Everything will be all right... " I shrugged, "or it will all be frozen death and the end of the world."

"You're sure you're not the jester for the Starks?" Asha asked.

"You admit that was funny, so obviously I'd be pretty good at it," I said.

"That you focus on," my sister sighed. I grinned and shrugged.

"I'm an optimist."

\- - - - - -

Seagard's dungeon was like pretty much every other medieval dungeon-It stank, was filled with hay, and was dark and dreary. I schooled my face into something other than a smirk… But I didn't really succeed. After all, I'd outwitted one of the Kings of the Seven Kingdoms. He was in this dungeon thanks to my planning.

I could afford to be smug. After all, with Euron Greyjoy on the march, Balon would want to be involved.

"Father? Hello?" I called to the cell. "We're here… We have some bad news for you."

Silence. I stepped to the dark cell, looking at the huddled mass of my biological father in the corner of the dungeon.

"It's Euron, father," Asha said. "We need to deal with him… Father?"

I looked to the guard, who was sitting at a table reading something. It looked like… A porno magazine? Well, I shouldn't be surprised that the invention of photography and the printing press would lead to such things… So soon.

I shook my head. "HEY!"

"Ah… OH! M-My Lord!" The guard said quickly, putting the thin book down. "I was a bit distracted, I had to-"

"Open the cell," Asha ordered. The guard looked to me. I nodded, and he came up with the keys. He unlocked the cell door, and pulled it open. We ran over to the silent Balon, and I raised my oil lamp. I flipped it on… And Asha covered her mouth with her hands.

"Oh… Father," Asha murmured. The dead eyes and engorged tongue of Balon's hanged face greeted us. Strips of cloth from his clothing had been fashioned into a crude noose, and he'd pulled and pulled until…

Well… He'd had enough time to write something in blood on the cell wall. I raised my lantern and sighed.

"' _That which is dead… Can never die,_ '" I murmured. My sister knelt beside the body, resting a hand on his shoulder. She stared intensely at Balon, her mask fracturing as she tried to keep her emotions in check. I sighed and crossed my arms over my chest. The guard stuttered.

"I-I'm sorry… I didn't… I just came on, and the book… It… I mean… I didn't know-!"

"I suggest you leave, before you make yourself look any dumber," I said flatly. The guard scurried away, as Asha continued to gaze on Balon's corpse. I stared at him in similar silence. Asha sighed, slowly rising. Her eyes were shut tightly.

"... He was our _father_ …" She said softly.

"Yeah," I sighed. I then grit my teeth, and pulled back my foot. I swung it up, kicking the dead bastard in the face. "YOU STUPID BASTARD!" I bellowed, before punching him. "YOU HAD TO RUIN EVERYTHING! EVERY! FUCKING! THING! YOU! TOUCH! FUCK! _YOU_!"

Asha stared in naked horror and disbelief as I continued beating the dead man.

"YOU! STUPID! SELFISH! MORONIC! CUNT! GAHHHH!" I bellowed, finally just shoving the corpse over. I panted loudly, and shook my head as I glared death at Balon.

"Theon…" Asha tried. I shook my head again.

"He was a stupid bastard who couldn't… Wouldn't learn, wouldn't change… And now… He never will." I sighed and rubbed my face.

"He was your _father_ ," Asha emphasized.

"... And now I've lost them both," I whispered. She held my hand, but leaned against me as though she needed support. We stood there, silent. Our dead biological father in the cell with us.

… Just another fucking day in Westeros…

\- - - - -

 **XXX: Westeros Wedding Crashers, Part 1**

 _AC 299 Riverrun, The Riverlands_

\- - - -

The march back to Riverrun had not been particularly enjoyable. My biological father may have been a bastard, but... Him killing himself as a last act of spite? That had been hard to deal with.

Asha had broke a bit... And then pressed on, her face still a cold mask of iron. She swore she would keep the Ironborn from attacking the North, but it was only a temporary solution. Robb had not been happy, but frankly, she was worth more on Pyke than in a cell.

And whether or not she respected the treaty, the fact was the Ironborn were not inclined to fight while the Kingsmoot was going on. So either way, we had a small window of opportunity.

We had to exploit it.

Besides... My best friend and brother in all but blood was getting married. I had to be merry and joke at his expense repeatedly.

"Stop sulking," I said to Robb, as he sighed and looked over the planning table. He scowled up at me, iron wolf figurines scattered all over the map.

"I am _not_ sulking," Robb grumbled. "I just... I didn't want to marry just for... For politics."

I nodded solemnly, and patted him on the shoulder. "I know," I said. "But you're the King, Robb. You knew your hand was going to be offered someday. And besides..." I looked aside, "Amarda seems to think you'll like her."

"Mother wrote me to be wary, given the Tyrells are opportunistic," Robb grumbled. I sighed, and squeezed his shoulder.

"Yes... But the Tullys marrying your mom to your dad? That was opportunistic, and they were happy."

Robb nodded, biting his lower lip pensively. "Yes..."

"And you don't have any natural born children to make things awkward," I counseled. Robb scowled at me, and Grey Wind, who was napping nearby, looked up at his master's irritation.

"Yes... _Thanks_ to you," he hissed. "Hiring Asher Forrester to... To...!"

"Cockblock you?" I asked. I sighed and shook my head. "Well! He's losing his bonus. He broke and told you what his mission was, and who gave it to him." I rubbed my chin. "Bad form for a covert operative-"

"Why?!" Robb demanded. I rolled my eyes.

"Robb... I want you to have a happy marriage. To have a woman you can love, and who loves you..." I sighed and patted his fur-clad shoulders. "But you're _the King_. Which means, like it or not, you have to marry for politics. If we're going to win this war, and deal with the real problems facing the realms of men, we need as many kingdoms as possible with us." I smiled at him. "And hey! We'll be helping to lift millions of people out of poverty, disease, famine and other blights with what we bring to them."

Robb frowned and looked aside. "I really wish I'd told you all to fuck off when you called me King in the North," he grumbled. I laughed.

"Yeah, I know... Which makes you the perfect man for the job. You don't like it, but you'll do it. And relax! With me around, you'll still remember what it is to laugh and have fun..."

Robb raised his eyebrows. "So you weren't just trying to keep me for yourself with that Asher stunt?"

"Robb, there are more than enough rumors about me and Ramsay," I said wearily, "do you really want to fuel the fire?"

A tall, dark haired woman entered the room, bowing to Robb. I backed away from my king, hands behind my back. I blinked in confusion when I saw the woman was Dacey Mormont.

"Your Grace," she said, "I have come with the final garrison. We should be ready to move on King's Landing soon."

"Good," Robb said with a nod. He noted my frown, as did Dacey. "Something wrong, Theon?"

"But... You went by land," I said, confused. "How'd you get here so quickly?"

Dacey blinked. "By the rail, my Lord."

"The... rail?" I asked, straining my memory. "Rail... Road?"

Dacey Mormont blinked. "Yes my Lord... The one running from Moat Cailin to Cerwyn? With a track under construction to Torrhen's Square? That rail-line?" She shook her head. "I will admit, a steam powered... Steel Horse seemed almost impossible to me, but I assumed you came up with it-"

"I... It..." I sighed and scratched the back of my head. "Who did we leave in charge of Moat Cailin?"

"The Reeds," Robb said, beginning to look a bit amused. Jerk king.

"Meera?" I called out. The bedding for Grey Wind shifted, and the teenaged girl emerged under her latest ridiculously useful camouflage. She saluted.

"Yes my Lord?"

"You have a train? And a railway?" I asked in disbelief. Meera blinked.

"Of course we do, my Lord! You signed off on it! Remember? You visited the salt flats and mines, and authorized a rail to be constructed. We had oxen pulling the carts... But Jojen apparently saw a few of your designs and ideas for steam engines, and so we built one to speed up the trip."

I blinked. "But all the way to Cerwyn...?"

Meera shrugged. "Well... We kept sending requests for funds for more rails, and you kept authorizing them... I thought, anyway." She rummaged in her tunic, and pulled out a photograph. "You really didn't know anything about this?"

I looked at the photograph in some mild disbelief. And yet, there it was: Meera, her brother, her mother and her father, all standing in front of a locomotive.

To be honest, I didn't know much about locomotive history when I left Earth... Or whatever happened to me. I did write down the basics of their designs, mechanics, and so on-Basics I had no idea about. So the locomotive in the picture conformed to these basics. It was a giant, streamlined beast-Looking like it was all boiler, with a slim smokestack. It had two massive wheels near the cab, and four smaller ones all driven by linked rods to massive pistons. It had a wooden cab and tender-presumably to save weight.

 _The things that happen with a few errant ideas,_ I thought to myself as Meera spoke.

"He said it was an 'Iron Duke' design. I don't know what that means. Everyone just called it the 'Iron Serpent', since it kind of moves up and down as it goes," Meera said with a sniff. She shook her head. "Anyway, we were using it to ship salt up, and stuff down, then apparently they saw your troops on the King's Road and thought... What the hells?"

"Reducing the trip that much..." Robb grinned. "I'm going to put railways across the North if I can." He looked to me. "Theon, you up to it?"

"Of course I am!" I said in protest. Robb chuckled.

"Just checking... I mean, you're not getting senile in your old age, are you? Missing an entire Iron Serpent?"

"Need I remind you, Your Grace, how many times you failed to heed my warnings of not touching anything in my lab?" I asked flatly. "Like the time with the electric motor and the-"

"I'll just leave you to it," Robb said quickly. "I need to see to the troops." He headed out with Lady Mormont, who shot me an amused look. The door shut behind them, and I sighed. I looked at Meera... Who was nowhere to be found.

"Exactly how is it _my fault_ I missed a train built by the people so good at disappearing?" I grumbled.

"Thank you," said Meera, as Grey Wind yawned and went back to sleep. I rolled my eyes.

"You're welcome..."

\- - - - -

 **Margaery**

Margaery smiled as the familiar, towering presence of Brienne helped her down from her horse. The armoured woman had suffered so, in the last few weeks, pain that Margery herself shared: the murder, by foul means, of dear Renly ... in many ways, she knew that the Maid of Tarth was taking it far harder than she. Oh, she had cared for Renly: he was sweet, and kind, and gentle, handsome, brave and skilled. A true knight, in most ways, and would have been a fine king, a good king ... with some help, of course. So what if he had some small ... _flaws_. Everyone did.

And yet ...

In all honesty, Margaery couldn't lie to herself well enough to say she was in love with the Lord of the Stormlands. Not the way Brienne had been. Oh, she had married him, and would have borne him children, and ruled by his side: when she sat next to him, watching their knights joust to entertain them, standing next to him as he planned, pouring across maps and reports, dealing with troublesome lords and ladies, negotiating and maneuvering and plotting ... it was a potent, heady brew, and as addictive as the milk of the poppy when misused. In those moments, she was fulfilling her destiny: she was Queen.

 _And now I will become queen to another king,_ she told herself as they made their way through the docks, the smallfolk and merchants of the port making way for them, as much for the richness and foreign cut of her gown than for Brienne's height, armour and blade. It was a thought that made her nervous. Oh, she had met Catelyn Stark, and had heard Renly's descriptions of the late Lord Stark: surely, a child of these two would be as comely and valiant as rumour suggested, but would he be kind, clever and witty? Would she find herself able to live in the lands of snow and ice in the far North? Could she rule the rough and abrasive Northerners, with their stiff pride, lack of respect for blood and their ... uppityness?

The Northern girl who was Lady Catelyn's assistant was clearly clever, educated and confident ... yet she was also lowborn, and had almost no restraint in her manners or tone around her betters. It was odd: Margaery had often thought that women should be more outspoken, able to speak their mind and opinions, but she had never thought to include _smallfolk_ women in that ideal, and it was more than a little surprising ... and a little frightening. Was Amarda a typical Northern girl? And if so, what were the _men_ like?

The Northern women met them at the jetty, and Margaery quickly moved to embrace the older woman, kissing her cheek, as was proper for a future gooddaughter. "Lady Catelyn, it is so good to see you again. I am so looking forward to this journey!"

The Tully woman smiled back, if slightly more tightly. "And you, Lady Margaery. I came South in the hopes of brokering a peace between two brothers, and find allies against a hated enemy. I may have failed in the first, but succeeded in the latter ... and perhaps more besides."

"Of course," Margaery agreed, smiling sweetly. "I am so very much looking forward to meeting your son: please, say you will tell me all about him during the trip North?"

"It would be my pleasure: I love, and am _proud_ of, all my children," said Catelyn, subtly reminding the younger woman of the trials and tribulations the Stark family had been through these last years.

Margaery slid her arm through Lady Catelyn's and pressed up against her. "Oh, please: I would so love that." They marched out onto the jetty, their escort following behind. But even as they walked down the flagstones, her heart sank. "Is that ... our ship?" she asked, her eyes glancing over the small, single masted vessel being loaded with bags, crates and barrels, crew and dockworkers bustling back and forth.

"For part of the way," confided Catelyn. "I have received word that we will meet a ship from White Harbour some distance up the coast. I am told it is one of our ... newer ... ships, and commanded personally by members of the Manderly family. For this leg? We'll take the _Dart._ "

\- - - - - -

Almost a full day after boarding the sloop (a Northern word that to Margaery sounded suspiciously naughty, or perhaps dirty ... either way, not something a good, well-bred Highgarden girl should say, so she took delicious pleasure in saying it as often as she could), Margery was finding that she was actually enjoying sailing. Brienne stood behind her at the prow of the vessel, watching as the waves broke below, a hand firmly gripping a rope with the other ready to latch onto her charge at any moment. Being from an island holding, it stands to reason she's comfortable around boats, Margery mused. Despite being quite a good swimmer, and enjoying the river boats that plied the Mander, she had never quite experienced anything like this ... and she was having a great deal of fun on board the _Dart._

Alas, Lady Catelyn was not so lucky ... and poor Amarda ... The Queen Mother of the North was spending much of her time in the captain's cabin (turned over to both noble ladies for the trip), while the bespectacled girl was spending all of hers with her head either in a bucket or stuck over the side.

"Oh, this is wonderful," she beamed.

"Yes, my lady, delightful," replied Brienne, her tone firm and even.

"Oh, do cheer up, Brienne: we're going on an adventure!" But she could tell the somewhat dour girl was having more fun than she was letting on.

"Um, milady?" Margaery turned to see one of the crew standing nearby. All in all, the Northerners who ran the ship were polite, respectful and somewhat distant, going out of their way to avoid the passengers, but were friendly enough about it: according to the first lieutenant, the captain had made some rather pointed remarks about the fate of those who would bother the noble born passengers during the trip: apparently, words like 'marooning', 'keelhauling' and 'flogging around the fleet' were used.

"Yes?"

"Beggin' yer pardon, milady. Captain's compliments, and he'd like to invite you an' the ... other lady," the older man's eyes flickered over Brienne's tunic and breeches before turning back to Margaery, "to the quarterdeck, at yer convenience."

She smiled. "Oh, thank you," she said brightly, before turning back to the water. After a moment, she was interrupted by the sailor clearing his throat. "Yes? Was there something else?"

"Um. Beggin' yer pardon, milady, but ... around His Grace's ships, when a captain says 'at yer convenience', what he really means is 'soon as yer legs can move', beggin yer pardon again. I know: it don't make much sense to me, neither, but that's how they talk, like."

\- - - - - -

Margaery carefully climbed up the short flight of stairs (or ladder, as the crew insisted on calling it) to the quarterdeck, that hallowed section of deck behind the mainmast that was restricted to officers, the coxswain, and invited guests. Given that it was directly above the captain's (and currently, her) cabin, it made sense: having people stomping about a few feet above where the most important heads on board slept was not exactly a good idea. In any case, she smiled as she saw Lady Catelyn and Amarda were already there, standing with Captain Harald Snow, who had proven a fine and courteous host despite the circumstances of his birth.

"Captain," she greeted him warmly, then smiled at the others. "My lady, Mistress Honn," she nodded her greetings, offering a slight curtsy. Behind her, Brienne thumped to a halt, and bowed, hand on the hilt of the broadsword belted at her waist. "I do apologize for being late, Captain Snow: a minor misunderstanding of naval customs: one of your wonderful crewmen was kind enough to educate us. Please forgive our tardiness."

"Not at all, my lady," replied the captain, lifting his hat and bowing in return. "In fact, you are just in time. As I was just telling Lady Stark, we are almost at the end of our journey together." He gestured towards the bow of the ship, and Margaery turned to observe that they were approaching a headland. "On our way South, we stopped in the bay just here, and were sent ahead while the _Dart_ remained here: we didn't want the _Seawolf_ to scare our Southern cousins," he said with a smile.

"Of course, how thoughtful," she said, although wondered just what the Northerners thought was so intimidating about their ship. After all, if it was anything like the _Dart_ , she had certainly seen larger -

"Sail ho!" called the lookout, and Margaery's eyes widened as the sloop gracefully skirted the headland, and turned into the bay ... and she got her first look at the _Seawolf_.

It was, by far, the largest single object she had ever seen. Yes, some of the massive grain ships and great cogs that carried the bounty of the Reach to other lands were enormous, but this massive, dark-grey behemoth was over two hundred feet long, low and predatory, with none of even the vestigial aftercastle that the _Dart_ boasted. Even with the sails of her two great masts furled, she looked like she were ready to leap forward like a pouncing shadowcat, and she bore the white stripe of paint down her hull from fore to aft that she had learned denoted the hatches where the snouts of a Northern ship's thunderers were thrust.

"The _Dart_ is the love of my life," said Snow softly, "Swift and weatherly with a stout hull and lovely lines ... but there is something about that monster that calls to the fighting sailor in me," he admitted, but straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Right. Master Gullson? Take us into the bay, bring us alongside the _Seawolf_ and prepare to lower the longboat for the transfer of passengers. Master Snow," he called, as the first officer leapt into action, bellowing orders to the crew, "Please inform the crew that we have arrived with four passengers to transfer, all in good condition and spirits."

The younger apprentice officer, another Northern bastard but enthusiastically cheerful in his own grey coat and hat, scampered off to fetch the correct flags to send the message.

As his crew moved about them with practiced urgency, Captain Snow turned back to his passengers. "While it has been a pleasure having you ladies aboard, I am quite sure the accommodations aboard the _Seawolf_ will make the rest of your journey much more comfortable: she was designed as a flagship from the keel out, and is well appointed to carry important passengers. The Dart will, of course, continue to escort you until we reach the Bay of Crabs, where we will meet a somewhat larger flotilla that will ensure your safety on the way up the Trident."

Catelyn smiled, somewhat weakly. "I am sure I speak for all of us, Captain, when I say I find it difficult to imagine a more pleasant journey at sea: you and your men have been remarkably welcoming and hospitable, and I fully intend to commend both you, your vessel and her entire crew to my son once we arrive at Harrenhal." The captain blushed slightly at the profuse flattery, and doffed his hat again, this time bowing over it.

 _Of course, how much of that was manners drilled into her during her youth, and how much was genuine, is anyone's guess_ , thought Margaery as she murmured her own praise: there was always a tightness around Catelyn's eyes and mouth when she was around Captain Snow. _Have they met before under less pleasant circumstances? Or is it simply that he's a bastard? I thought the Northerners were less concerned with such matters? Is she still that much of a Riverlander at heart?_

She wasn't sure if that was a good thing: in twenty years, would she still have so much of her Highgarden self? Or would she become more of a bluff, stern, hard Northerner? Could a flower from the Reach thrive in the cold and frost?

\- - - - - -

The sailors heaved at their oars as they carried the ladies across the bay, the four women and their baggage packed into the small craft by expert hands. Young Master Snow was at the tiller, and the adult sailors leapt to his high-pitched commands.

As they approached the _Seawolf_ , Margaery began to feel apprehension at the sheer size of the beast … and the number, and size of the gunports in her flanks. There were eight sets of what looked like sliding doors at regular intervals, and they were much larger than the six that graced each of broadsides.

With practiced ease, the rowers manouvered the boat alongside the larger vessel, and the men on that side of the longboat raised their oars straight up, letting the longboat rub up against the hull of the _Seawolf_. Even as they did so, sailors high above were lowering a set of long ropes with massive iron hooks at the ends, that the longboat crew reached up and grabbed. She was confused for a moment, before they quickly attached the large rings bolted into the hull of the longboat. Her eyes widened as there was an odd, chuffing sound from above, and the slack was taken up in the hawsers. Her hand found Brienne's quickly, and held on tight as the entire boat began to rise out of the sea and into the air.

"What in the world?" she breathed, and Amarda smiled weakly, still looking green.

"The Manderlys are famous for being … innovative, even for Northerners. The _Seawolf_ is almost entirely their project, as are her sisters being laid down in White Harbour. I suppose they decided that it was more efficient to raise the longboat rather than have passengers clamber up the side of the ship."

Margaery winced as she imagined lines of sailors heaving at ropes, hauling the boat into the air by brute force.

 _Strange … shouldn't we hear them, the way we did on the Dart when they raised sail? And what is that infernal noise?_

After a few long minutes, the longboat was lifted level with the deck, and crewmen on board rushed to lash the longboat to the side, and remove a section of railing, providing a gateway for the passengers to step through. Amarda went first, eagerly taking the hand of a sailor who helped haul her aboard, and Lady Catelyn went next. Brienne helped Margery to step up onto the deck, her heels clacking on the material beneath her with a noise that made her blink.

 _It's … metal. The whole thing is metal?_

"Just the outer hull and the decking, begging your pardon, milady," said the helpful sailor, and Margery realised she had spoken out loud. "Four inches of good White Harbour wrought iron over ten inches of ironwood and twelve of oak. First of her kind, our she-wolf is," he said proudly.

"Incredible," she breathed, getting her bearings. "And to bring us aboard like that … I hope it wasn't too difficult? The men must be exhausted!"

He laughed. "Nah: 'twas the steam jackass that did the work!" Then he winced, and doffed his cloth cap. "Beggin yer pardon, milady, I didn't mean nothin' by it. Just sailor talk, not proper like a noble lady would use, if you follow."

"Hey! You! Yes, you! More steam, next time! The steam jackass needs to get the boat alongside faster, you hear me? What if we had to do it under fire, eh? Come on, you lazy, stingy swabs, I won't have you lollygagging on my deck, you hear me?"

The sailor winced as he turned to salute the pair of strangely dressed women approaching along the deck, their heels ringing off the painted iron.

At first glance both seemed to be wearing similar uniforms to Captain Snow, but with their grey coats buttoned over long skirts rather than trousers, although their hems were high enough to show off their polished boots. Also, their cuffs and collars were decorated with lace, they had far more gold braid at the shoulders, and their sleeves were elaborately embroidered. Broad leather belts encircled their waists, holding hand-thunderers that had elaborately carved ivory were both tall, shapely women, though the younger, green haired girl was slightly shorter with a thicker brow and nose than her older companion. The crowning touch was the hats they wore: similar to Captain Snow's fore-and-aft cloth headgear, but with more gold braid at the fore brim, colourful cockades on one side, and in the case of the younger girl, a long feather sticking out in a rakish fashion.

"Lady Stark!" The taller one said with a graceful bow. "Welcome aboard our _Seawolf_ : Isn't she lovely?"

"And you too, Lady Margaery! Lady Brienne! And Miss Honn, last, but not least," the green haired one said with a smile.

Catelyn smiled as she curtsied back. "Lady Wynafryd, lady Wylla," she said in fond tones, and stepped forward to take the older girl's hands in her own. "Oh, it is so good to see you, my dears," she fairly gushed, suddenly the most relaxed that Margery had yet seen her. She then greeted the green-haired girl in the same way. Turning to Margery, she said, "Lady Margaery Tyrell, allow me to introduce Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly, daughters of Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbour."

Margery dove into her most florid curtsy, smiling delightedly. "A pleasure, my ladies. And yes, I am quite astounded by this marvelous vessel: I quite confess, I have never seen anything that would match it!"

Wylla snorted in a most unladylike fashion. "And you won't anywhere: _Seawolf_ is the single most deadly and dangerous thing on this or any other sea, man-made or natural: I'd love to see the ship-worm, kraken or hell, even _dragon_ that thinks it can match my iron-clad bitch!"

Suddenly Margery recognised the younger girl as the one who had been swearing at the crew.

"Apologies, my lady," said Wynafryd in more even tones. "I'm afraid my sister becomes … _quite_ enthusiastic when it comes to our brainchild's capabilities. But yes, we are extremely proud of her." She paused. "But of course, you must be cold, damp and hungry: please, follow us to the admiral's cabin: we've been keeping a surprise for you, Lady Catelyn, and he'll be pleased to see you … if he's stopped throwing up, that is …"

\- - - - - -

The hatch was opened for them by Wynafred, and Catelyn gasped. Margaery studied the old man in blue Maester's robes, who was sitting in a chair with pale cheeks.

"Maester Luwin!" Gasped Catelyn. She rushed over and hugged him tightly. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh! Hello Lady Catelyn," Luwin said happily. "I'm so glad to see you again…"

"Who did you leave at Winterfell?" Catelyn asked. Luwin sighed.

"I left Doctor Qyburn to… Guide Lord Bran," he said. "He has proven himself trustworthy… At least, long enough for this voyage to be completed."

"But I don't understand, why are you here?" Asked Catelyn, as Amarda, Margaery and Brienne shuffled into the cabin. The old man smiled.

"Well! Lord Theon asked me to come and help with certain matters for the final campaign… The Manderlys needed someone with expertise in steam engines… This was merely a detour." He beamed warmly at Margaery. "But… I do get to meet young Robb's bride to be. So I'd say it was worth the seasickness."

Margaery's smile grew more genuine. "I do appreciate that dedication, Maester Luwin," she said, giving him a curtsy. He chuckled and sat back in his chair, Catelyn Stark joining him in an adjacent chair. Luwin smiled up at Margaery.

"You'll forgive me if I sit, my lady," he explained. "I would prefer to not cover your lovely dress in my lunch…"

"Not at all," Margaery said kindly. "So… Tell me of King Robb. Is he truly as valiant as they say?"

"Indubitably," said Amarda. Luwin laughed.

"Yes… He's also a bit impulsive and can be unsure of how to speak to others," Luwin said. "I'm sure you have no such problems, my lady?"

Margaery chuckled, nodding. "I suppose I don't, Maester," Margaery said.

"Good! You'll teach him some of that," Luwin said. "Now… Lady Stark, shall we start with the embarrassing childhood stories or simply his pratfalls in adolescence?"

"Luwin!" Catelyn gasped, scandalized. "How can you be so blase?"

"I blame the company of the young," Luwin chuckled, "and the fact that if we dress up King Robb too much, the young lady will surely be disappointed."

Margaery nodded, amused and already feeling a bit more relaxed. Certainly, the Northerners were a bit crude, a bit proud… And yet she felt more at ease around them than she'd ever felt on the journey here.

No wonder they were so dangerous… And yet, so strong. She was sitting in that proof… And the smile from the old maester was so inviting.

Margaery Tyrell took a deep breath, and allowed herself a slightly more relaxed stance. Brienne too calmed down, just a tad.

"I'm sure I won't be, Maester Luwin," Margaery said, "but please… Tell me so I might have a proper opinion of my future husband…"

\- - - - - -


	13. XXXI, XXXII, XXXIII

**XXXI: The Man that Once did Sell the Lion's Skin, Part 1**

 _299 AC, King's Landing, The Crownlands  
_  
 **Kevan**

 **\- - - - -  
**  
The docks of King's Landing stank as badly as the rest of the wretched city. Timbers creaked, ships groaned in their docks, and men chatted softly about fishing and the latest news. They all stank, and Kevan Lannister would be glad to be gone soon.

That is what his brother had promised. Peace and a restored realm.

"I don't suppose they could take any more time to get here?" His nephew, Tyrion, commented dryly. Kevan bit back a smirk, as his nephew stood by him in annoyance. "All the time of eternity... And it would still not be enough."

"Essosians have a different view o' time than us," Bronn said. "Kind of envy 'em for it. Lot less bother, lot less shit to shovel."

"Yes, I believe they get slaves to do that for them," Tyrion observed dryly. A gigantic ship parted the morning fog, drifting up to the dock as sailors yelled at one another in Essosian languages. Many of the sailors were whipped by their superiors, as loud horn-like sounds echoed from within. The ship came to a stop, and the men on the docks helped secure the huge ship with lines tossed back and forth-The language of the sailor was universal, when ropes were involved.

At long last, a gangplank was lowered, and a man in fine white robes walked down with a smile Kevan didn't trust for a moment. His golden chains clinked against his chest, and he gave a theatrical bow to the three men.

"My dear Lords Lannister," he said, "I am Randal mo Eraz. Thank you for greeting me..." He stood up. "Is one of you Lord Tywin?"

"Lord Tywin is busy with affairs of state, and regrets he could not attend," Kevan said diplomatically. "But he has allowed us to accept your... Visit, in his stead. I am Kevan, Tywin's brother. This is Tyrion Lannister, Tywin's own son. And this is Ser Bronn, a knight of the realm."

"And Hero of the Blackwater, my lord," Bronn helpfully pointed out. Tyrion resisted rolling his eyes, and stepped up.

"It is good of you to travel so far, Master Eraz," Tyrion said to the smirking master, "but we're still unclear on the generous... Gift, being offered."

"Ah," Randal said with a nod. "Of course..." He snapped his fingers, and two of his attendants ran up the gangplank. The crew began lifting up parts of the deck, as much activity went on inside the hull. Presently, an entire section of the wooden hull came down like a drawbridge, held by strong chains. Out of the darkness of the ship's interior, men marched out. Each in gray leather armor, with identical helms. Each marching like machines, perfectly executed. They turned and marched on, heading for the city, as Randal grinned.

"Due to our mutual... Enemy," Randal said, "the city of Yunkai and her sisters offer these generous gifts for the use of King Joffrey. They are his to command. All... Loyal troops who have... _Volunteered_ to aid our friend the King."

"I see," Tyrion said tightly. "Such... _Enthusiastic_ volunteers..."

"They are indeed," Randal said, still smirking. Kevan felt the pit in his stomach widen, and he took deep breaths.

"Ser Bronn can see to their settling in," said Kevan. Bronn started, but Tyrion nodded his agreement. Bronn sighed, and shrugged.

"Well lads! Let's get going! You can bring your luggage and your..." Another loud trumpet left the inside of the boat, as something big stirred within, "... pets along."

Tyrion and Kevan shared a look... And they were off for the Red Keep in record time.

\- - - - -

The meeting room in the Tower of the Hand had the Small Council gathered-Tyrion noted he had not been invited. Then again, neither had Kevan, so it made them square. Joffrey was grinning broadly, looking eager, as he babbled about the troops he'd seen coming into the city.

"They all march so _perfectly,_ and those _beasts..._ I can't wait to have Robb Stark crushed beneath them! No, no, I'll have him beg for mercy, with _Sansa_ there, and then I'll crush his head! Ha!"

"How many troops?" Cersei asked Petyr Baelish, who was smiling as always.

"About five thousand to start. More to come," Petyr said. He shrugged. "This is a far better use of them than in putting down slave revolts..."

"Yes, slaves to help oppress slaves, so _very_ symmetrical," Tyrion commented dryly. Joffrey scowled at his uncle and his great-uncle both.

"Slaves?!"

"You've actually bought Unsullied, brother," Kevan said, shaking his head in disbelief. "That... That's _monstrous-"_

 _"_ So is Robb Stark slaughtering our armies," Tywin responded coldly. "The king agreed, Master Baelish arranged it..."

"And with the Reach and Dorne both in negotiations with the North," Varys spoke with a shrug, "we do require an army."

"And what did we trade them?" Tyrion asked. "The dreams and promises of a losing kingdom?"

"We are _not_ losing!" Joffrey snarled. "They're all traitors and they will _all_ be put down!" Joffrey smirked. "And they accept we have a _common enemy,"_ he said, as thought feeling himself clever for quoting such a line. "Closer ties with Essos is good for us anyway. With such open rebellion in _my_ kingdoms, we need friends."

"Yes... Import loyal, castrated subjects to replace those who rebel," Tyrion said sarcastically. "However will that end badly for us?"

"Do you have any _better_ ideas, brother?" Cersei asked venomously. "Or did you waste them all on wine and whores?"

Kevan slammed his fist onto the table, making everyone save Varys jump. He glared death at Tywin.

"I would have _words_ with you," he snarled.

"I would speak to my son... And my brother," Tywin said tightly. "Alone."

Joffrey grinned, and hurried off. "I can't wait to have them kill at my command," he boasted excitedly to his annoyed mother. Varys and Petyr departed, both giving nothing away. Tywin glared at his son and his brother.

"Well?" Tywin asked. Kevan sighed.

"What did you trade the Essosians?" He asked.

"We're up to our eyeballs in debt, what did we trade them?" Tyrion asked further. Tywin shrugged.

"Gold, of course," he said. "The accounts of Casterly Rock are still good, despite everything. And of course... A few prisoners. A few... Other concessions-"

Tyrion leaned against a chair, staring in amazement. "You _sold_ our prisoners into _slavery,"_ he said in horrified amazement.

"Indentured servitude," Tywin said flatly. "For a period of five years-"

"This is insane, brother!" Kevan shouted. "You have any idea what the people will _do_ when they hear of this?! What about the _North?!"  
_  
"To negotiate terms, one must have strength," Tywin said flatly. "And we lacked it. We lost it... I have regained it again. Let the Septs click their tongues at us-They'll appreciate it when they're not under the heel of a Northern savage king."

"And what makes you think Robb will want to negotiate with us now?" Tyrion asked, shaking his head. "The _moment_ this gets out-"

"It won't, not soon enough to matter," Tywin stated. "And with the Slave Cities supporting us, we'll break the North. Their weapons work well enough on normal men-These are _not_ normal men... Or beasts."

Kevan sighed. "And my... Peace mission?" He asked flatly. Tywin snorted.

"Your overtures have been enough to delay him... Now you must stall him. As long as possible."

"Father, we couldn't even _win_ just fighting _the North,"_ Tyrion pointed out. "He has the Riverlands, the Reach, maybe even the Iron Isles all flocking to his banners. Dorne may turn. Even with all of the Slave Cities on _our_ side, it still isn't enough."

"It will _be enough,_ if we continue..." Tywin looked up from his papers, glaring death, "or would you rather bend the knee to the Young Wolf than your _own family?"  
_  
Both men were silent for a time. Tywin snorted.

"So... You'd be willing to throw away... All of it... Just like that, for a _wolf."_ Tywin rose.

"I didn't say any such thing-" Kevan began, but Tywin snorted.

"As long as I am head of this family... Do as I say," he ordered. "Or I'll feed you to the cannons _myself."_ He stalked off, leaving Tyrion and Kevan alone. The dwarf sighed and rubbed his chin.

"Well... This is a bitch and a half," he muttered. Kevan snorted.

"No doubt," the older man agreed.

 **XXXII: Westeros Wedding Crashers, Part 2**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, the Riverlands_

\- - - -

We'd had a quiet New Year's celebration, going out to all the men in the camps to speak to them and share gifts. The morale of the army was very, very good-Even the Sparrows had joined us, and we'd helped them distribute food and supplies to some of the poor people who had been displaced by this war. Religious fanatics or not, they at least had the right spirit.

And finally, we'd received word that Lady Stark and Robb's new queen were coming... About a day before they arrived. The raven in question had apparently been caught in a storm, which hadn't left us much time to get the word out.

Hell, Lady Olenna Tyrell's group, coming by land, would not be too far behind. Despite the speed of a steam-powered ship, the Seawolf could not go up the whole of the Trident owing to her massive size. So a wind powered vessel had to suffice for the final leg of the journey. A little river boat that finally crested the horizon, late in the afternoon.

Robb and I stood on the coast, bannermen with flags arrayed behind them. Roose Bolton was standing with them, as was Greatjon Umber and Dacey Mormont. Dan Greenstone was nervously waiting alongside me, the little assistant a bit intimidated.

I looked over at my assistant, and then back at Robb. Robb grimaced, and rubbed Grey Wind's head. The great wolf was whimpering a bit, and Robb stroked between his ears as the riverboat under the Direwolf flag slowly approached the dock. That crown seemed to be digging into his forehead, with how many lines there were on it.

"Relax," I counseled. Robb scowled.

"I _am_ relaxed," he muttered.

"Why's Grey Wind fidgety then?" I asked. "He reacts to your moods..."

"He's nervous," Robb justified. "It's nothing to do with me..."

I stared at him intently, and Robb flushed. "Maybe a little," he admitted. "Meeting a woman I'm supposed to marry... What if she's evil and twisted?"

"She is a woman, my Lord," Dacey Mormont observed, "that's only to be expected." Which got some laughter out of the gathered men and a few of the women, as the She-Bear Lady grinned. Roose Bolton stayed as stoic as ever. Robb scowled.

"Are my own bannermen going to mock me for being just a little..." Robb tried to come up with a word.

"Anxious?" Dacey suggested.

"Nervous?" Roose said.

"Bit of a pussy?" Greatjon Umber suggested. Much laughter ensued, and Robb sighed and rolled his eyes. I snickered.

"Come on," I said, patting his shoulder, "beneath all the politics is probably someone just as nervous as you are."

"I'm not nervous! I'm... _Cautious_ ," Robb said carefully. "A rose has thorns, after all."

"Her grandma isn't even here yet," I said wryly. Robb gave me a flat look.

"That's not funny," he said.

"Little funny," I said.

The riverboat came to a slow stop, as men on shore helped the crew moor it down. A gangplank was set down, and guards fanned out on either side of the path. Robb gave a glare to all of his banners, and we straightened up.

"The band's not playing," I muttered. "Why isn't the band playing...? Meera?"

The little crannogwoman popped up from beside Grey Wind, dressed to resemble reeds, grass and a discarded bucket for some reason, which she wore atop her head. Robb just rolled his eyes.

"My Lord!" Meera gasped.

"Go to the band, tell them to start playing something," I said.

"Yes my lord," she said. "Such as?"

I thought hard. What abomination from my drunken mind that had infected the musical culture of this society would do...?

"Just... Just tell them to pick something! Now!" I hissed. She ran off as the passengers ascended to the top deck.

The band started up as Lady Catelyn emerged, with a woman in a cloak behind her. Following her was Amarda, looking relieved to be on solid ground again. And finally, tall and blonde and armored, was Brienne of Tarth. Who despite everything said about her, just looked plain. Kind of cute, actually, given her freckles.

" _Like the legend of the Phoenix!"_ The singers began, " _All ends with beginnings~! What keeps the planets spinning (uh), The force from the beginninnnng…~!"_

My lips twitched, as the party came up to us. _Of course it would be Daft Punk I wrote when I was drunk..._

Catelyn reached out and hugged Robb, who returned it. She even spared one for me. She moved aside, and swept her hand to present the woman in the cloak.

"My son… This is Lady Margaery Tyrell, of House Tyrell," she said with a smile.

The woman pulled the cloak and cowl off, shaking her hair free like a model in a shampoo commercial. It had been ten years in this universe since I'd seen Margaery Tyrell... And the actress did not do her credit. A pointed chin, a cute nose, eyes on constant bedroom mode... I felt Robb suck in a deep breath next to me.

She turned her deep, brown eyes on Robb… And smiled warmly.

"Your Grace," she said, bowing, "I am so happy to meet you at last…"

" _She's up all night to the sun! I'm up all night to get some! She's up all night for good fun! I'm up all night to get lucky~!"_ Crooned the band. My lip twitched harder, this time due to Robb's reaction. He looked like he'd seen an angel descend from heaven, or a puppy whose master had come home early.

Or just like a teenaged boy who had met the most beautiful woman in the world. It was kind of pathetic: Here he was, the Young Wolf, a badass who had brought down Gregor Clegane with revolvers, his wolf, his sword and a quippy one liner. A king defying the Iron Throne, who had won the loyalty of tens of thousands of men and women… And he wasn't able to speak a word to a pretty girl.

Dacey Mormont just snickered. And Catelyn looked at us all disapprovingly… Saving most of it for me. I coughed and elbowed Robb, who cleared his throat and seemed to remember he was in fact the King in the North.

"Ah… Yes… So am I… Happy to meet you," Robb said. He took Margaery's hand, lifted it, and kissed her knuckles. "Welcome to Riverrun…"

\- - - - -

 **Margaery**

"I should go first," muttered Brienne, but Margaery shook her head, shivering slightly as the gangplank was lowered. The long summer was over: winter was creeping in, and it was far more noticeable in the Riverlands than it had been further South. She had left her more daring dresses in her chests back in her cabin, instead wearing one that barely showed off her shoulders and the top of her cleavage, but compensated with a whalebone corset that helped to emphasise her already generous charms to their best effect.

"If they truly intended us harm, they would not have waited this long," she whispered back as Catelyn gestured for them to join her at the gangway. "And if they did mean to kill us," she nodded to where troops carrying swords, spears and various firearms were lining up on the dock, "Do you really think you could stop them all?"

"I could die trying," said the taller woman simply, and Margaery felt her heart break a little at Brienne's fatalism. _She truly loved Renly. She knew what he was, knew that he would never feel the same way for her, but she loved him anyway … and to see him murdered in front of her in so horrible a fashion_ … She reached up and touched her bodyguard's armoured arm, offering her a gentle smile, before turning in a swirl of skirts and cloak to join Lady Catelyn.

As they descended the gangplank, she felt the butterflies in her stomach grow larger and more furious, like a flight of dragons … or perhaps one of the North's 'steam engines', like the overwhelmingly complicated collection of pipes, tubes, cylinders, wheels and pistons that lay at the heart of the _Seawolf_. Wylla had been eager to explain how it all worked, caught up in her own enthusiasm, and Margaery felt she understood the basics, enough to feel like she had a flywheel and pistons at work in her belly.

 _Come now, girl: it's not like this is your first wedding!_ The voice in her head sounded suspiciously like grandmama. _Northerner or not, wolf or not, he's just a boy, no different from the last … although this one may actually be capable of fulfilling his husbandly duties!_

 _That's what I'm afraid of,_ she wanted to shout back at that nagging voice. She had known Renly for years, liked him, been his friend. Bearing his children would have been duty, a part of the price of becoming his queen, but it was one she would have performed willingly: he was very handsome, gentle and kind. But Robb Stark … all the Northerners had been polite and helpful on their journey, but there was still an edge, an air of restrained ferocity in the way they moved and spoke, like at any moment they could leap into action. She didn't mind admitting (to herself at least) that they frightened her more than a little.

So, as she stepped onto the dock, only half-hearing the alien music being played nearby, she forced herself to remember her deportment training, the manners and movements that had been drilled into her since the day she was born. _He may be ugly, a giant, hairy and brutal, but he will be my husband, my king, and I will have to -_

Her thought broke off as one of the party waiting a few yards ahead broke free of the group, and strode forward to embrace Lady Catelyn. Tall and cleanshaven, with a mop of short, curly hair the colour of old rust held back by a slender circlet of steel, unadorned but polished, he moved with the easy grace of a practiced warrior, not unlike her own brother. Instead of armour and furs, he wore a finely cut grey tunic, with only a hint of embroidery at the wrists and throat, and tight leather breeches that showed off the physique of a trained rider and swordsman. He wore no sword, but had a pair of 'revolvers' not unlike those carried by the Manderly girls holstered at his waist, on a heavy leather belt that was buckled with a silver wolf's head, the beast's eyes glittering with semi-precious stones.

After a brief whispered exchange, Catelyn pulled the king (he could be no one else) towards her with a fond smile. "My son… This is Lady Margaery Tyrell, of House Tyrell," she said.

She steadied her hands and pulled back the hood of her cloak (incidentally tossing her hair artfully, and allowing him a glimpse of the cut of her dress), offering her most charming smile, her large, luminous brown eyes wide and glittering slightly (an old trick, but a good one). "Your Grace," she said, bowing, lowering her eyes demurely, "I am so happy to meet you at last…"

When he didn't immediately respond, she risked a glance up, and her heart froze. The king was just staring at her, as though he had never seen anything like her before. All at once, all her old fears rose up: she had never thought herself a great beauty. Her cousins all seemed to have better figures, more attractive features. She had always seen her chin as too sharp, her nose too pointed, her eyes too angular. Bards had been singing her praise since she was eight, but that was what bards did! Loras and Renly both claimed she was beautiful beyond compare, but in all honesty, what did they know about what made a woman attractive?

After a long moment, the young man standing beside the king, with sandy brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, cleared his throat and jammed an elbow into his ribs in a not-so-subtle reminder. Jerking into motion, the king shook himself, and took the hand she was still offering, and she felt the calluses on his fingers, the result of a lifetime swinging swords. "Ah… Yes… So am I… Happy to meet you," he said somewhat haltingly, raising her hand to his lips. "Welcome to Riverrun…" he said softly, and she looked up to meet his eyes squarely over their hands … and she froze. It wasn't disappointment or distaste in his blue eyes. His handsome features began to smile, and she couldn't help returning the expression, this time in effortless, honest ease, as the engine in her belly shifted gears.  
 _  
Not disappointment at all …_

She felt a cold nose bump her hand, and she pulled it back with a gasp. A great direwolf stood by Robb, massive and intimidating. How in the world can such a massive beast move so silently? She stared into his yellow eyes, and the wolf stared back. Robb glanced back to his wolf, and they seemed to share words in silence. The wolf turned back… And Margaery held out her hand, a bit timidly.

The wolf sniffed her hand… And licked it. Her smile returned. Robb smiled too.

"Sorry," he said, "this is Grey Wind. He won't hurt you…"

"He's amazing," she said. The man with the well-trimmed beard cleared his throat.

"Your Grace, My Lords and Ladies… I don't know about you, but I'd like to get inside. How about we continue this inside?"

Robb nodded. "Good idea Theon. If I may, my lady?" He said, extending his arm. Margaery took it and walked down the path, between men and women in armor, waving dozens of different banners overhead. The wolf accompanied them, as though guarding them both, and despite the size of Grey Wind... She felt no fear.

 _Not disappointed... At all,_ Margaery decided.

\- - - - - - -

 **XXXIII: Westeros Wedding Crashers, Part 3**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands_

\- - - - - - -

 **Margaery**

Margaery's skirts swished around her ankles as she followed behind Lord Theon as he led her in a tour of Riverrun. Lord Edmure had originally been slated to be her escort, but Theon had explained that morning that a sudden bout of illness had prevented the Tully heir from being present.

 _A charming euphemism for being hungover, and from his expression and tone, he hadn't meant for me to be fooled in the least, yet I detect no animosity towards Edmure. These Northerners, even those not born of the North, are still so very strange._

Still, Theon proved to be a patient, charming and friendly guide. Knowledgeable and perceptive, he nevertheless did not direct the tour at the art, sculpture and expensive furnishings within the river fortress, but instead focused on it's defences, cunning engineering, and storied history.

"I'm afraid matters of art are beyond my area of expertise, beyond a little doggerel poetry on occasion when inebriated," he admitted breezily as he led her across a walkway above the massive water wheel within the Water Tower, and he patiently explained the principle of the mechanism, which seemed to have inspired him to build similar machines in the cold, far North. It was rather like listening to the Manderly sisters speak of their beloved Seawolf and her engines of steam, if less personal and far more practiced. Wynafryd would recite numbers and statistics, citing facts and figures while jotting down notes of equations and ratios in a pocket notebook, while Wylla's hands would gesticulate while explaining the inspiration for this or that feature, loudly declaring the power of their creation, her eyes wide and green hair tossed with enthusiasm. Theon's explanations were often simpler, using words and occasionally gesture to craft an image in the mind, vividly portraying what he saw into her own mind's eye. It was a great gift of communication, either inborn or acquired through long practice.

At one point, they passed the doorway to a large ballroom, and Margaery paused at the sound of someone reading aloud from the Seven Pointed Star. Looking inside, she saw several dozen women of various ages, sitting about in groups around low tables, many listening to the septa who was standing at a lectern reading from the Book of the Mother, but most were softly chatting and gossiping. It was a familiar enough sight, and many a day she had wiled away in gardens amongst her friends and kin in much the same fashion, but while she was used to embroidering or doing needlepoint, these women were doing something else entirely.

She watched as one matron absently took a piece of paper, and used a wooden dowel to roll it into a cylinder. Tying off one end with a practiced motion, she picked up a small scoop, dipped it into a pot in the middle of the table, and then used a small funnel to carefully pour a black powder from the scoop into the cylinder. Then picking up a small lead ball from a tray, she placed the ball into the end of the tube, then tied off that end. The operation complete, she inserted the finished cylinder into a hole drilled into a wooden plank, along with several dozen others. As Margaery watched, the last hole was filled, and a page rushed over quietly, removing the wooden tray and replacing it with another, empty one.

She blinked. "What are they doing?" she asked Theon, who smiled.

"You may know that our firearms use a black powder as fuel: each time one is fired, a small portion of that powder is ignited, burning so rapidly it appears to explode, and the resulting gases force the projectile, in this case a lead ball, down the barrel and towards the target. These ladies are producing what we call cartridges: ready made packets of powder and ball, ready to be placed in a soldier's kit. Forty of those can get a musketeer through just about any battle, and slay many an enemy soldier."

She turned to him in confusion. "You mean, they're making _weapons_?" She was a little scandalised. True, making weapons and armour was considered an honourable profession in the Reach, but it was a profession: a thing of tradesmen, craftsmen and merchants, not lords and ladies of quality.

Theon shrugged. "Why not? It serves the same purpose as needlework or embroidery: keeping the hands and eyes busy while freeing the mind for conversation, and has the added bonus of contributing to the war effort. Every cartridge they make could save the lives of their fathers, brothers, husbands or sons. By sitting with their friends, they are helping to end the war that much faster. Could there be a more noble pursuit for a highborn woman?"

He said it with conviction, but there was a bit of sadness in his gaze.

Margaery stared at him for a moment, then looked back into the room. The women's hands moved quickly, clearly the result of weeks of practice, and her eyes caught a glimpse of one young woman, dressed in elaborately embroidered brocade, surreptitiously lift a finished 'cartridge' to her lips for a quick kiss before placing it aside and reaching for a new piece of paper. Suddenly Margaery had a vision of that cartridge winding up in the hands of that girl's husband or brother, going into his musket (her mind glossed over the details, as she was not yet familiar with how such weapons operated), and that musket spoke, felling an armoured soldier who looked suspiciously like Stannis Baratheon.

She was brought back to reality by Theon offering her his elbow. "My lady? If you will come with me, I believe Lady Catelyn has prepared a luncheon, and wants to tell you more of the parts of Riverrun that, as a non-native, I haven't the faintest clue about. Shall we?"

She smiled, her cheeks dimpling. "Of course, Lord Theon. Please, show me the way. I look forward to spending some more time with my future goodmother," she said somewhat honestly. Really, she liked Catelyn, but the woman could be somewhat ... _clingy_. Understandable, due to the injuries done to her family, but occasionally draining. "While we walk, perhaps you can tell me more about these thunderers you Northerners are so fond of: I have head rumours, of course, and the Manderlys were very kind to show off their ship's weapons, but I fear I am still struggling to understand the concept ..."

Theon smiled, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Well… It's pretty simple, actually. It's all a matter of energy." He pointed to a bow mounted on the wall. "Everything contains energy, from the dirt to us to the very world. And you can make use of it in many different ways. The energy contained by a bowstring, for instance, is significant when pulled back-Enough to launch an arrow when it's released. The energy is transferred to the arrow from the bow. You understand so far?"

Margaery nodded. "I believe so…"

"Well, gunpowder contains a lot more energy than a bowstring," he went on. "But to liberate it, you need to ignite it. And to get the most use out of that energy, you focus it along a strong, narrow path. With me so far?"

Margaery hummed. "It's like the difference between a bow with a notch, and a bow without? Or a bow arm that is weak and shaking, or one that is strong and steady?"

Theon nodded. "Yes… That energy, liberated, is transferred to the bullet. We leave the bullet only one path to take, which accelerates it out. It goes faster than any arrow, and hits harder because of a simple principle: Mass times acceleration equals force. You have more mass, you have more force, and if you have more acceleration you have more force. That same principle applies to any gun, from the size of a pistol to the cannons on the Seawolf."

Margaery nodded again. "You have a gift for explaining such concepts. The Manderly sisters tried to, but… It was a bit overwhelming."

Theon nodded with a knowing smile, blushing a bit. "Yes… They're brilliant, really. Just not good at explaining things to…"

"Ignorant nobles?" Margaery chuckled. Theon smirked.

"Not what I said."

Margaery laughed again, covering her mouth gently. "I said it for you," she said. She shook her head. "This is all… It's like nothing I've ever seen. It all seems like magic, at times. How anyone could come up with such wonders… I'm sure it will end this war all the sooner."

Theon grimaced, and sighed. The melancholy she'd spied every now and then was on full display.

"I can only hope," he murmured. Margaery stared intently at him, her gaze filled with compassion as her grandmother had taught her. Theon took a deep breath. "I never wanted this war, please understand," he said. "None of us did…"

Margaery nodded. "I think only fools and the bloodthirsty seek it…" And much to her relief, even her future husband, the Young Wolf, did not seem to have that kind of fury. That she could see, anyway.

"There are far worse things in the world to face… More important things. Worthier things to pursue, than war with men," Theon said. He shrugged, a macabre smile on his face. "But… That's what most people will probably remember me for."

Margaery squeezed his hand, feeling sympathy. Theon smiled appreciatively, and sighed.

"We… We had better get to lunch," Theon said. Margaery nodded.

"Of course, my Lord…"

\- - - - - -

 **Robb**

His uncles had allowed Robb the use of his solar for doing his paperwork. Despite the warm sun and Grey Wind sleeping at his feet, it was difficult to feel relaxed. What was it his father said? "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown?"

Amarda Honn sat with him at the desk, calmly explaining each paper she passed for him to sign.

"As it stands, the marriage guarantees a basic military alliance, relaxed trade restrictions with the Reach, and opens negotiations for additional technologies on a per Guild basis. Material transfer on the side of the North/Riverlands alliance consists of one thousand five hundred muskets, one thousand pistols, fifty cannons, fifty mortars, two thousand grenades, and sufficient powder and ammunition for all these weapons for a period of two months combat to start. The Reach will in turn provide Lady Margaery's hand in marriage, twenty-thousand troops, and logistical support to the Army and Navy of the North equal to their own Army. Further provisions include providing protection and support to the Reach in event of conflict, assistance in event of natural disaster, such as flood, famine, fire-"

"I'll sign it," Robb said quickly. Amarda frowned.

"I could read through the rest-"

"I'm good, just give me the next one," Robb said as he scribbled his signature on the paper. He dripped his own wax and put his own seal on it. He passed it onto the stack of finished papers. Amarda sighed, but nodded and pulled out the next one.

"This is the proposal for the contract to the Mechanics Guild to work in the Reach. Lady Olenna proposed a few modifications that the Guild will have to ratify. I believe it can be done with a minimum of conflict given the expansive new market. However, the lack of a formal court and arbitration system in the Reach compared to the North will complicate matters."

"We couldn't just allow the Guild to do as they wish?" Robb suggested. "Let them and the Reach sort it all out?"

Amarda gave him a _look_ over her eyeglasses. He found himself pitying her future children.

"If you would prefer the Guilds exploit the simple people of the Reach for profit, and only granting such protections to Northerners, by all means," Amarda said in a neutral tone. "Your Grace," she added at the last.

Robb grimaced, and signed the paper. She set it in the small pile of completed paperwork, and pulled out another form.

"Remember Your Grace, not all men are as virtuous as you," Amarda said. "They must be kept in check with consequences."

"The leader of the Mechanics guild is a good man," Robb said. Amarda nodded.

"He is good to his family, his workers and to his King. It does not mean he will be as good to workers without similar protections. He must have incentive to behave."

Robb sighed. "Cynical… But probably true," the King in the North admitted. He scowled down at the desk. Amarda tilted her head.

"Your Grace?"

"Just thinking… It would be so much easier if the Reach was already part of the North," he sighed. "Or the Riverlands… They're accepting the reforms required to get our technology. Our industry. But even that is taking forever. Guilds arguing with noble houses… I've had to break up so many duels." He leaned back and groaned. "And doing this… For an entire _nation_?"

"It does sound exhausting, Your Grace," Amarda said. She shrugged. "I myself enjoy organization, making order from chaos… But even I have some limits."

"Some," Robb said, amused. Amarda sighed.

"It is a difficult responsibility, Your Grace. I do not argue with it. But part of the delegation of powers to organizations is to make your life easier. We must set this up now, or it will be even harder in the future."

"I just have to resolve their conflicts which only happens, oh, _every day_ ," Robb said dryly. "Having to do that for every kingdom?"

"It is a difficult job, Your Grace," Amarda said, "but someone must do it. And better one who is honorable and wise than one who is spoiled and petulant."

Robb looked up with a hopeful smile to the young woman.

"You want to wear the crown?" Robb asked. Amarda smiled gently.

"That would be impossible, Your Grace."

"Too bad," Robb sighed. Amarda patted his hand.

"Not that bad…" She sighed and pulled up a letter. "In addition... The Freys are sending their forces to join ours for the wedding, as a "gift"."

"Better late than never... I guess," Robb snorted. Amarda nodded.

"Indeed, Your Grace... There is one other thing." She hesitated a bit. Robb looked at her intently.

"What?"

"The Lannisters are sending a party to negotiate terms under a flag of truce," she said. "A continuation of their attempt at the late Lord Renly's wedding."

"Oh?" Robb asked, a little amused. "Who are they sending?"

"Lord Kevan Lannister, and Lord Tyrion Lannister," Amarda read off. Robb sighed and shook his head.

"... We will accept them under truce... Why not? This wedding is already going to be a circus... The more, the merrier."

"That's the spirit, Your Grace," said Amarda.

\- - - - - -


	14. XXXIV, Omakes, XXXV

**XXXIV: Westeros Wedding Crashers, Part 4**

 _AC 300, King's Landing_

 **Joffrey**

King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm… Was sneaking through his own castle like a thief in the night. He was outside the office of his Hand, listening in to his grandfather giving orders like… Like he was king and not him!

He had been ignored and rejected… His own loyal bodyguard, the Hound, had abandoned him in the middle of battle to go protect that stupid girl Sansa! And that pitiful imp of an uncle… His cowardly grandfather… And his own mother…

They were all losing this war. Losing it. Just because the North had _thunderarms_. Just because they had _cannons_ and gotten lucky at Golden Tooth. And now… _Now_ … They were going to try and make peace with them!

The pathetic jerk who had cheated and knocked him down when they first met. The insipid fool who had insulted him and called him an idiot! And the daughters of that traitor… Both of them!

He hated them all. All of them were useless… They were all _useless_!

But Joffrey could do nothing. He was the King, and his "subjects" did nothing! They ignored him! None of them would even kill if he ordered them! Not even the volunteer troops from Essos would do it-His grandfather commanded them!

He had nobody… Nobody he could count on. All of them were useless…! Failures…! Off to make peace…!

He saw a thin, spindly man round the corner, his long robe waving behind him almost dramatically. He smiled and bowed.

"Your Grace! A good evening to you," said Petyr Baelish.

"Lord Baelish," Joffrey ground out with a scowl. The older man tilted his head.

"Is there something I can do for you, Your Grace?"

"Yes!" Joffrey snarled. "You can tell me why my kingdom refuses to obey me! Why they insist on making peace rather than _war_!"

Petyr Baelish hummed. "Peace, Your Grace?"

"Oh like you don't know!" Joffrey scoffed. "My grandfather gets us troops and war beasts, and he then he sends my imp uncle and my great-uncle to make peace with those fucking wolves!" He clenched his fists and beat his thighs with them. Petyr shook his head.

"Your Grace, the Northern weapons make direct attacks impossible," Petyr said. "We will never be able to match them as we are. Not even with the troops we procured will allow us an easy victory."

Joffrey scowled deeper. "Then why bother with peace negotiations?!" He whined.

Petyr adopted a kindly smile-Something Joffrey had desperately wanted to see on his father's face. He stood beside Joffrey, offering a comforting expression and hand on Joffrey's shoulder. The King bristled.

"Your Grace, it is to buy time," Petyr said. "Time is all we can get. To catch up, to turn the tide. Wars are often won by who refuses to give in. Your father… He would not give in, would he?"

"No," Joffrey said bitterly, "but he wouldn't have just skulked behind _walls_ and _trenches_! He would have struck! With his hammer!"

"That he would, your Grace," Petyr agreed, "but that is not your strength. All Kings have had different strengths and weaknesses… What would you say yours is?"

Joffrey frowned, worrying his lower lip. "I… I see what the true threat is?" he said hesitantly.

"And what is that?" Petyr asked, patient and kind.

"That… That if no one believes their King is strong…" Joffrey grimaced. "They won't… They won't follow him. I have to show them _why_ I'm king. I mean… Robb Stark has his thunderarms. The Targaryan bitch has her dragons…"

Petyr sighed. "Your Grace… Joffrey," he said, and Joffrey jerked slightly at the familiarity. "Identifying the threat is only part of it. We must figure out how to address it. Now… What is our strength?"

Joffrey thought hard. "... I know what I need to do."

"And what is that?" Petyr asked.

"I need to strike… I need to show why I _am_ the king…"

"Yes. Unfortunately, unlike your father you cannot strike with a hammer… But you can strike in other ways. What might those ways be? What is a weakness of your enemy?"

Joffrey thought, long and hard. "... They're all traitors?"

Petyr nodded. "Yes… But what's a weakness you can use against them?"

Joffrey struggled. Petyr shook his head.

"It isn't a trick question, Your Grace… Just answer. As simply as possible."

"... They're human," Joffrey began. "And humans can die."

Petyr nodded. "Yes… There is a Braavosian saying: 'Valar Morghulis'. 'All men must die'. Your enemies can die… But you can't kill them as long as they're protected by thunderarms. You must strike… _Within_."

Like I did with that Stark brat… Or like I tried, Joffrey thought angrily. As though reading his mind, Petyr smiled.

"Your esteemed uncles are going to Robb Stark's wedding… What do you think will happen to the Army of the North if their king dies? If the Tyrell's leaders die? If Theon the Genius dies?"

"... They will lose faith…"Joffrey smirked. "And all they'll have left is that _cripple_. Who nobody will follow…"

"Yes, yes. Good, Your Grace," Petyr complimented, and Joffrey felt a flush of pleasure. "But to simply hire assassins… We can't allow that. We need to make our enemies… Fight one another. Much easier than them attacking us for revenge, don't you agree?"

Joffrey nodded. "Yes… But who-?"

"The Freys," Petyr began, "are a house hated by both the North and the Riverlands. They are snubbed, ignored… But loyal to the crown. We could persuade them to go to the wedding and perhaps…" Petyr smiled and shrugged. "Do their duty… To the rightful king of Westeros. What do you think?"

Joffrey nodded eagerly. "I want it done! What must we do?"

"Well, Your Grace," said Petyr with a bright smile, guiding the young king down the hallway, "first of all, please trust me from now on…"

They walked down the hallway, moving from light and shadow… As a pair of eyes watched them go.

Varys, the Spider… Smiled and went on his way.

\- - - - -

 **Tyrion**

Tyrion's horse jostled under him as it's hoofs found yet another divot in the road, and once again he cursed the failure of the Crown in recent years to properly maintain the Kingsroad.

 _Yes, I know, I didn't do much myself when I was Hand, but to be perfectly fair, my attentions were somewhat more immediate …_

"You look troubled, nephew," observed Kevan, where he rode next to Tyrion, sitting much more easily in the saddle, being both a natural horseman and having legs that didn't require a specialised saddle to keep him seated. Being about a foot taller, even sitting down, didn't hurt either.

"I must admit, uncle, that my mind tends to return to the last time I experienced a Stark's hospitality," he said, returning his attention to his companions. They were escorted by a hundred Redcloaks, picked men whose families had been Lannister servants for centuries. In addition, ahead, behind and on the flanks trotted the shaggy remnants of Tyrion's hill clan tribesmen, in pairs or small groups. Fewer than thirty managed to survive the horrendous experience of what was later identified as 'Bolton Guns', a truly terrifying weapon that spat on all forms of chivalry, which made sense given the reputation of it's creator. Generous gifts of swords, axes, chain mail and helms had kept the survivors fairly loyal, but Tyrion hoped he would never have to send them into the teeth of another storm like that one: any survivor of that would likely make the nickname 'halfman' a truth, preferably with a rusty axe.

"Seems to me it turned out alright," observed Bronn, from where he rode on the other side of Tyrion. Kevan was not sanguine to the fact that Tyrion's companion didn't quite know how to shut up, but had learned that Tyrion actually seemed to enjoy the ruffian's prattle. "You got fed, watered, a nice place to sleep -"

"A skycell, I will ascertain, is not 'a nice place to sleep', unless one rather enjoys the prospect of _falling_ to one's death," sighed Tyrion.

"- got your own group of followers," Bronn gestured to the clansmen, not acknowledging his employer's comment, as though he had never spoken, "And you met me," he jerked a thumb at his chest. "Which were a lucky thing, too, I may add, as without me, you would have 'fallen to your death' out of that Moon Door the little moron was so fond of," he finished with a smile.

"It was a mixed experience, to say the least," Tyrion grumbled. "Still, I'm not exactly eager to discover if Lady Catelyn has grown more generous and forgiving than when we last met. You do, perhaps, recall that this whole, unfortunate mess began when she decided I was somehow responsible for trying to kill her child?"

"A crime for which, as I recall, I proved you innocent," offered Bronn.

"A technicality," said Tyrion, waving a hand dismissively. "Never forget the capability for the noble mind to ignore inconvenient facts when making decisions."

"Ah, but technicalities, I have found, are the very soul of law," stated Bronn, raising a finger somewhat pompously. "Found that out when I was about thirteen: turns out, if there's no body, it's blessedly hard to charge someone with murder. Made my life a hell of a lot easier after that, let me tell you."

"Bronn, has anyone told you that you're in line for sainthood?"

"Hmm. Can't think they have."

"Excellent. Wouldn't want you to be disappointed."

Kevan shook his head at the banter between his nephew and the jumped up sellsword. "We will be official representatives of the Iron Throne, envoys of your nephew King Joffrey. By all the traditions of hospitality, here and in the North, we will be perfectly safe."

"Yes, as long as the Northerners still consider us to be worthy of honour. Starks, I have learned, are extremely prickly about their honour, but Tullys are _far_ less fastidious. We know that 'King' Robb fights like his father, but his looks are far closer to those of his mother: we shall have to wait and see if his manners were learned from Eddard or from Catelyn."

The trio rode in a companionable silence for a few minutes, before Bronn raised the point they were all thinking about. "And just what, pray tell, do you think the Young Wolf will do to us once he learns that we've been selling his subjects to Slaver's Bay? Now, me, I'm a practical sort of man. Live an' let live is my motto, and if Lord Tywin is of a mind to sell folks who want to buy folks, well, that's his prerogative. But from what I know of Starks, selling Northerners to slavers is something they frown on, proper like. Unreasonable sort of folk, I know, but to each his own ..."

Immediately Tyrion recalled the fate of Jorah Mormont, the former lord of Bear Island. The Northern lord had sold some of his smallfolk, poachers, yes, but still vassals of his House, in order to pay for his wife's luxurious lifestyle. When word had reached Winterfell, it was said that Eddard Stark had immediately called for his horse and his sword. If Jorah hadn't fled to Essos, there was little doubt that he would have wound up about a foot shorter.

"We will just have to conclude our business before they learn of it," said Kevan.

"Ah, but are our orders not to delay, distract, confuse and otherwise force the Young Wolf to take as long as possible before he marches on King's Landing?" pointed out Tyrion dryly.

This time, the silence was less companionable, but rather something somewhat more depressing.

\- - - - - -

One saw Harrenhal long before one reached it, even after a week of travelling: a massive bulk on the horizon, stones scorched and twisted black by dragonfire centuries before, reducing the proudest castle in the Kingdoms to a barely habitable ruin.

As they rode up the Kingsroad towards this spectre of the past, one of Tyrion's clansmen trotted over, thick hair and beard only lightly touched by sweat (and not at all by comb). "There are eyes upon us, halfman," he reported. "I have not seen them, not with my own good eye," he jerked a thumb at his remaining orb, the other socket long empty, "But they are there. The wolves know we are coming."

Tyrion bit down on the bile rising in his belly. At least while riding up the Kingsroad, he could distract himself from the moment. Now, it was here, and he couldn't decide if he were terrified, or elated: terrified at the prospect of being captured and imprisoned by enraged Starks (again) or elated at the chance to once again play the Game, with his life, those of his companions, and indeed the _entire Realm_ as part of the stakes. "Then it is a good thing that we are not trying to sneak up on them," he said aloud. "We want them to know: Ser Bronn," he said formally, "Have the men break out the banners. We will fly the Golden Lion, the Black Stag and the Burning Chain," he smiled, naming the sigils of House Lannister, House Baratheon, and House Bronn. "We are, after all, envoys of King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name. The formalities are expected … and likely to improve our chances of getting out of this alive."

Or it might offend them and drive them into a maddened frenzy: well, what was life without a little risk?

"Riders ahead," called one of the Lannister knights, even as the banners were being raised. Tyrion raised a hand to shield his eyes, and peered ahead. Yes, there were about a dozen horsemen approaching down the road, and carrying the grey banners of House Stark, as well as the red and blue of the Tullys. And … black and green?

Even as the column halted, the knights easing their swords in their sheaths, he prodded his horse to ride a little ahead, to get a better look. "Get back, you fool," ordered Kevan, but Tyrion ignored him.

"If they have us under observation, as my good clansman suggests, then I think they could have killed us a hundred times over in the last few hours. At least this way I can see … yes," he said triumphantly, "I recognise that banner in the van. It's the black bear of Bear Island."

It was indeed, and it was being carried next to the lead rider, wearing a green and black tabard over blackened chain mail. As they grew closer, he noted that despite the warrior garb and mace on display, the rider was remarkable slender … as the Northerners came to a halt, that leader removed it's helm, to reveal the bowl-cut black hair framing a feminine but strong face. "Ho there," she cried, walking her horse forward, leaving her standard bearer behind. "That's quite far enough. There's little love for Lannister banners in this land: state your business!"

Tyrion bowed from the saddle. "My lady Mormont: allow me to introduce myself. I am Tyrion Lannister, of Casterly Rock, late the Hand of the King, and now envoy and plenipotentiary to the court of King Robb Stark. We come bearing the messages and greetings of King Joffrey, on this auspicious occasion: the wedding of your noble lord. My companions," he indicated first Kevan then Bronn, "Lord Kevan Lannister, and Ser Bronn, of the Blackwater. We have," he pulled a small parchment from his belt pouch, "a letter of passage from your King, allowing our party to pass through your lines and attend the festivities." _As if you didn't know that: you wouldn't be here if you weren't expecting us …_

Dacey Mormont reached out and took the letter, briefly glancing over it, and Tyrion could almost feel his men-at-arms resisting the urge to make jokes about Northern whores trying to pretend to be able to read.  
 _  
Please: continue to resist, lads_ , he thought furiously, hoping that at least some would spontaneously develop the gift of hearing his thoughts. Then she looked up. "Fine. There is a camp up ahead, where your men can stable their horses and pitch their tents. Unfortunately," she said with a smile that was more wolf than bear, "We cannot allow them to go any further: having Lannister swords loose in our own camp will only lead to … _misunderstandings_."

Tyrion fought down the urge to retort loudly. "Our _invitation_ ," he insisted, "mentioned that Lord Kevan and myself would be allowed an escort."

Dacey nodded. "Exactly. Which is why he's going with you," she nodded to Bronn, who jokingly pointed to his chest in a questioning manner. "Yes, you," she growled. "See? I'm sure that will be quite sufficient, especially for the _honourable_ members of such a distinguished House …"

Tyrion sighed. "You know, you're much more subtle than your uncle," he observed, even as the Northerners started to prepare to march.

"So many have said," the Northern noblewoman noted. "Oh, and just to ensure your comfort, I ensured to bring along someone to help you feel welcome and at home," she gestured to one of the riders, who doffed his helm to reveal a familiar face.

"Ser Lucas," Tyrion said with a suddenly dry mouth. "How … _very good_ to see you again."

The young knight's eyes glittered with amusement. "Likewise, Lord Tyrion. I hope this time our time together is not interrupted, and comes to the … appropriate conclusion."

 _Seven save me from Northerners and Riverlanders who think they're so clever_ , he thought wretchedly as the column formed up to march.

 **Omake The Press and its Development Alongside War (882 AL)**

Eddard Shorthand considered himself a nameless peasant like so many others yet his acquired last name had set him apart from the farmers and miners which had made up his company for the past few months.

A last name was a sign of nobility, wealth or valour and Eddard didn't himself noble or wealthy and had never done anything worthy of a medal yet he still held respect among these 'veterans' despite not shouldering a thunderer alongside them.

Perhaps the respect was jest as when a pig farmers third son had questioned him about his strange looking notes after interviewing some of the soldiers he'd mentioned that it was short hand, that it allowed him to write as much information as possible in a short amount of time. He supposed that the raucous cheers of 'Shorthand' he received after that were initially jest yet the name stuck and he'd started to end his articles with what would be his full name. If he was to be Eddard Shorthand it wouldn't be a 'moniker' like the Young Wolf, he would embrace it fully convention be damned.

And he supposed the respect he earned was the short correspondence from the conscripted men of the 3rd Regiment of the Rills that he would attach to the bottom of his article and the correspondence he would receive in return. Generally written by village or town heads and on occasion a child's but no doubt dictated by the wives and family of the men. Lady Joelle Cerwyn was a nice lady he mused, purely for the fact that she ensured that correspondence would return, initially after the first message from the 3rd Regiment it took two weeks to locate the named members families and garner a reply but things became quicker now only taking days.

He received a letter of commendation from her and an invitation to what would have amounted to a small feast which Eddard assumed was to be a gathering of Press Officers (as they had been called much to the chagrin of actual officers in the military) as many hadn't seen the Lady in person, to happen after the war had come to the end of course.

He supposed it was to also be a strategy meeting like what commanders would have to ensure the best outcome for their forces. Lady Cerwyn's force in this case was the Westeros Despoiler. The fact that other Press Officers had begun to be embedded in other units so to do what he did made Eddard happy and it did wonders for the men and boys who fought the war raising their morale significantly.

Press Officers would often be the bearers of good news or well wishes from family members which led many men and boys to tears, Eddard had also tried to bring bad news back up to the north after a small skirmish ended particularly bad for the 3rd Regiment with two hundred of their one thousand men dead for only three hundred Lannister men. He had spent two days gathering all the information he could so that the families could be given closure. Only to receive a stern worded letter from Lady Cerwyn herself that his article for the next issue had been Blinked (Black Inked meaning censored) due to concerns for public morale towards the war, yet that she appreciated his concern for the families and commended him on his initiative and exhaustive efforts in identifying the dead. She also mentioned the fact that the families would be contacted by the local militia lieutenants quietly as to their fathers and sons sacrifices and that other Press Officers would be contacted to adopt his practice to the best of their abilities.

Eddard had raged towards no one for an hour after receiving the letter before coming to his senses and realising that it was in fact probably the best thing to do, he then quickly left his senses by getting blind drunk with some of the conscripts.

Eddard never considered himself important or a hero or a man of legends, yet it cannot be denied that Eddard Shorthand, inventor of the writing technique that takes his last name, was an important individual in the development of journalistic culture and was later seen as a champion of the peasantry as it became clear how many families had been informed of the passing of their loved ones due to his techniques. They achieved closure which few ever would in such a brutal time. Eddard is personally attributed to discovering the identities of two thousand dead men and boys yet his dedication to ensuring closure for those who had little -despite the actions of Theon the Clever which gave them a great amount more than their grand parents would have had- led to his death.

While his depression in later life can be attributed to multiple sources it is highly likely that the task of learning the names of the dead and the families they would no longer share their lives with would have pushed him much further along that path. His suicide at the age of fifty four was mourned as a great loss by the journalistic community with obituaries for him appearing in all papers across Westeros. The modern day practice of identifying war dead can be traced back to his selfless actions in such a small piece of history when compared to the overall "War of Five Kings".

–-Rickon Shorthand-Quillson

Professor of History at the Humanities Institute,

Winterfell University,

Extract from "The Press and its Development Alongside War (882 AL)" which was posted in the Westeros Despoiler on the anniversary of Eddard Shorthands death in the year (886 AL).

 **Omake -** **Terrible as an Army with Banners**

 _300 AC, the Kingsroad_

The thudding of marching boots and the rattling of drums filled the heart of Roose Ryswell as he sat astride his horse, a shaggy Northern courser, and he smiled as he watched line after line of soldiers pass him bye on the way South. Every one of them wore the same uniform: black trousers, black boots, grey coat with stamped-steel breastplate, grey cloak and bassinet. More, each carried an AC297 "Thunderarm", and had a cartridge box with forty rounds of ammunition at their hip, with sixty more in their packs. _As well as their spare clothes, mess kit, assorted tools, part of their squad tent, a bedroll, sewing kit, first aid kit ..._ Roose shook his head as he imagined marching even on decent roads with such a load, but thanked the Old Gods for making him a noble son of House Ryswell. _At least I get to ride a horse_.

As a new block of troops approached, their sergeant bellowed out, "Regiment! By the _left_! Present ... _salute_!" As one, the marching soldiers of the Third Royal Rifles slapped their fists to their breastplates, and he returned the gesture, a feeling of pride welling up in him. He commanded the First Brigade, a completely new force in the North, a brainchild of Theon Greyjoy (like so many others), but brought into being by first Eddard, then Robb Stark, with input from a dozen lords, sellswords and adventurers. These were men sworn to the North, rather than any individual lord, so the colour parties that preceded each regiment carried the grey direwolf of Winterfell, and the wolfshead banner of the the King in the North and the Trident. Mostly smallfolk, bastard sons, merchants, bakers, servants ... his men came from all over the North, called by duty, by the lure of excitement and adventure, of having a chance to see more of the world than their little crofts or shops. They were not fine lords or mighty knights, but they were Northmen, hard and true.

He had wanted to march South many months before, when the war first started, but the King refused. " _Your men are not ready_ ," he had said, as he watched the recruits fumble their drill, in the bivouac outside Wintertown. " _Many of them already know how to load and shoot, and some are even fine shots, but they need more: they need steadiness, discipline, experience in moving quickly but in good order, how to give orders and take them. Most of the smallfolk already marching to my banners are enthusiastic enough, but they won't stand up to a charge by Lannister heavy horse. I need to you create a force that will stand in the face of all the Seven Hells of the New Gods. They need to be able to fire three rounds a minute in the line of battle, and not flinch when the enemy is firing back at them, or charging with lowered lance. These men are fine iron, Roose: I need you to make them into castle-forged steel_."

"And I've done that," he whispered to himself as the men marched past. Each regiment was supposed to be a full thousand men, but sickness, injury and (very) occasional desertion lowered their numbers, so that of his five regiments, none numbered more than nine hundred or less than seven. Each regiment was also trailed by a battery of six Storm Hammer guns, fresh from the Winterfell arsenal, giving the Brigade a total of thirty artillery pieces. Only the officers were mounted, with the only other horses pulling the guns, limbers, supply carts, ambulance wagons, commisary carts, portable forges ... Seven Southern Hells, there were even small units of camp followers behind each regiment, with whores, officer's wives and mistresses, all organised and trained to march alongside the troops, and to contribute to the army when encamped. _Camp followers attach themselves to armies: there's no stopping that. All you can do is make sure they realise who's in charge, and that they know that the army won't slow down for them._ Many of them wore bits and pieces of cast-off uniforms, trousers and coats, and the regimental surgeons ensured that they were healthy and fit to serve. "There's never been an army like this, not on this or any other continent."

"You said something, sir?" asked Captain Morcar Flint, his aide, who sat on a horse next to him. Like Roose, Morcar wore the same uniform as the marching troops, if made from finer cloth and better tailored, with the simple twin silver bars of his rank pinned to his epaulets where Roose wore a single gold star. Unlike his General, Flint carried a pair of double-barreled Thundercloud caplock pistols on his saddle-brow instead of the chromed Mustang revolver that as strapped to Roose's leg. The swords on their backs, however, were basically identical.

He smiled. "Nothing, Captain Flint." He pulled on the reins and tapped his horse's flanks with his heel, getting it moving. "Just glad to finally be on the march."

As he headed towards the head of the column, his aide and bodyguards riding behind, he heard the familiar but still unsettling wail of the pipe band provided for the Brigade by the chiefs of the North Clans, at the request of Lord Greyjoy. At first he had been annoyed by the instrument's harsh, grating, multi tonal howl, but over the months he had grown to appreciate it, and combined with the rattling of snare drums and thumping of boots on the Kingsroad, it produced a most martial affect on the heart.

"Come along, Captain," he called out behind him, removing his helm and waving it, causing a roar of approval from the regiment he was riding past, "We've got a wedding to attend ... and then on to war!"

To war. At long last.

 **OMAKE: Meanwhile, in Slavers Bay…**

Daenerys 'Stormborn' Targaryen was reading – and enjoying the experience.

This was not unusual mind you. But it was _what_ she was reading that might have been slightly surprising.

A newspaper.

They had been something of a novelty when she had been introduced to the concept, after Ser Barristan had saved her life and introduced himself. Seeing him carrying one, she had asked in curiosity what it was and he had handed it over, explaining its purpose to her - to her disbelief. The idea that thousands, perhaps _tens_ of thousands of copies of a book (of sorts) could be produced every _month_ , filled with the very latest news and events? Spread far and wide to keep people updated, smallfolk and Nobility alike?

Preposterous, surely!

And yet, here it was right in front of her. A product of these new 'printing presses' that had come out of Westeross.  
Such a simple, yet elegant and, well, _clever_ concept – and a sign of just how much things were changing back in her home.

Newspapers had not caught on in Slavers Bay for whatever reason, but Bravos and Pentos at least had embraced the concept and were also 'printing' their own newspapers. The 'Titan Times' -focused mostly on business- and the 'Pentos Post' which seemed to be little more than every scandal and rumor in the free cities condensed into neatly organized columns.

She had not wasted too much time on those after she had found a trader in Astapor who sold the newspapers, delivered by trading ships that came from the Free Cities. There was little demand for the 'Westeros Despoiler', the Norths newspaper - and by far the most 'polished' and useful of them all, so she had been able to buy dozens of issues cheaply and voraciously consumed them as she waited for the Good Masters to assemble to hear her offer for their Unsullied this afternoon.

She had read _about_ Westeros of course, many times. The books Ser Jorah had given her for his wedding had been one of her few companions on the first weeks of her travels with her husband and his Khalasar and she had felt a yearning for the home she had heard so much about but never seen. But they were books of history. Fascinating to be sure, but impersonal and general.

 _These_ newspapers on the other hand were the exact opposite. It was almost as if she could look through a window at 'life' in the Seven Kingdoms. Mostly in the North to be sure, as the Newspaper was written for Northerners, but each issue had an 'Eye on…' section for each of the other Seven Kingdoms and even occasionally some news from the Free Cities. News from various Royal Courts and other grand meetings that gave her insights into some of the most powerful people in the realm. Talk of the sweeping and fascinating changes that were running through the North as new industries and technologies were embraced. Delicious scandals that brought houses into disrepute, fashion changes as new clothes become all the rage among youth to the editorial dismay of older more conservative commentators …  
For the first time ever she felt that she had _some_ kind of an understanding about the life of the people she dreamed of returning to. And the more she read, the more she started to realize her Brothers few comments about The North he had made to her over the years –that they were backwards tree worshiping treasonous barbarians- were either gravely misinformed, or, gravely out of date.

Or, quite possibly, both.

If the newspapers were telling the truth – and it was surprisingly hard to argue with the almost magical 'photographs' showing things in such detail from Winterfells new threshing machines to White Harbors new shipyards to the 'crane' at Moat Cailin being used to help rebuild it, then the North had become a dominant power, perhaps _the_ dominant power in the Seven Kingdoms. Embracing new technology and industry that had exploded across the land, changing everything from the way Smallfolk lived to the fashion sense of the ruling house. And as she saw, slowly changes were spreading further south – especially in the Riverlands where pictures showed clusters of new 'watermills' springing up all over the place producing everything from flour to steel…

But what did that mean for _her_? And her plans to retake her families Throne?

She had her Dragons, yes. And yes, Aegon the First had forged the Seven Kingdoms with the power of _his_ three Dragons and a bare handful of soldiers …

…but _his_ Dragons had also been fully grown, trained and ridden by Targaryens who knew exactly how to use them. _She_ had but babes, barely able to feed themselves that she could neither ride nor truly command. And even if they were fully grown, she knew that Dragons were not invincible. She had read in Ser Jorahs books about the 'Dance of the Dragons'. More than one Dragon had been slain or crippled in that civil war -albeit at great cost- by normal people with bows, arrows and lances. And as she read up on more 'current' events, she saw that the North had increasingly little need for such primitive weapons as pictures of the sinister looking 'cannon' showed being mounted on The Wall by the Nights Watch showed.

Could the fire of the Targaryens have finally met its match in the new Fire of the North?

Yet beyond all of the questions of tactics and battles - a deeper question had started to worry at her like an itch she could not scratch as she read through pages that lauded the success, growth and invigoration of the 'New North'…

The question of not how, but _if_ she should return to the Seven Kingdoms.

Her Brother had of course dedicated his life to that goal – been obsessed by it, sacrificing anything and _everything_ – even her- to gain it. He had ever been repeating tails from their contacts across the Narrow Sea with a fire in his eyes that for the longest time had made her think he truly _was_ a Dragon; tales of a people desperate and longing for the return of their True King. Of the villages secretly making Dragon Banners and singing songs calling for their return when the cruel forces of the Usurper were not looking, of the smoldering rage in most of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms that needed but a spark to burn away the traitors and restore all that was good and right and proper…

Yet as she read through the newspapers, she saw _nothing_ of this. Granted she knew that such stories would hardly be published if they were … but it seemed to her that far from a miserable dystopia, that the North (and probably the rest of Westeross) were genuinely content with their situation, with no desire to upset the status quo. Unprecedented wealth was being generated by the Smallfolk as they seized new opportunities and possibilities with both grateful hands, there simply did not seem to be any sign of the massive discontent or seething injustice her Brother had ranted about. Nor did her Knights have any indicator of the same. Nor did any of the Free Cities papers that talked about the Seven Kingdoms - by all accounts, most people were simply living their lives - and in the case of the North, rejoicing in the steady improvements their leaders were delivering to their quality of life.

Her doubts over her chosen course and cause had only deepened when she had found a 'feature' penned by Theon Greyjoy himself. A man she had seen talked about almost in as much awe as Eddard Stark, who apparently was responsible for most of the changes sweeping across her home. Titled 'The Mad King – the history of Aerys II' and written for the anniversary of his death, it would have been easy to simply dismiss it as propaganda from a loyalist of the Usurper.

Except for the fact that both Ser Jorah and her new companion, Barristan 'The Bold' Selmy, had gently admitted to her, after reading it, that _everything_ it claimed was true.

The authority of the words of Theon 'The Clever' Greyjoy had been made even more damning by the way he fully acknowledged the highly successful early years of her Father - until the 'Defiance of Duskendale' where he had been taken prisoner, the humiliation of which the Greyjoy speculated was the genesis of his madness, or at least the trigger which had pushed it out of his ability to control. After that had come the increasing mood swings, the paranoia and violence. Burning alive his supposed enemies without a trial or even evidence – even to her horror, growing to include roasting _children on spits_ in the throne room. And if that hadn't been hard enough to make her feel sick, what had come next ... the words insisting that her Father was well known to have raped and abused her mother?  
Ser Barristan again had grimly confirmed he had stood post outside their bedroom door several times, hearing the screams and cries of her mother as her Father had had his way with her. And something had died in her heart reading that; realizing that there was a very good chance that _she_ was the product of such a 'union'.

Highly unsettled, she had moved onto the next issue in the pile after that - and its cover page had done little to settle her down It was a 'special edition' with a full page picture on the front of a man she recognized as Robb Stark, looking serious, imposing (and she admitted to herself, rather attractive in a rugged _primitive_ kind of way...) with his hands resting on a sword and a _giant_ wolf - a Dire Wolf - next to him looking as intimidating to her as she supposed her Dragons might appear to others. And below this picture in large, clear text, was a single unambiguous word.

 **WAR**

She had heard of the recent chaos in the Seven Kingdoms from Ser Barristan of course, although he had left the Seven Kingdoms shortly before the conflict had truly started beyond small skirmishes in the Riverlands. Here however the Westeros Despoiler had put forward the Norths formal declaration of war, written by Robb Stark himself and outlining their grievances clearly and cleanly in a well written piece titled 'Why we fight'. After she had read the paper and passed it to Ser Jorah, her friend had needed some time alone, later admitting that he had felt no small amount of rage when he had read of the events that had taken place in Kings Landing. He had asserted strongly that _all_ the North loved and respected Eddard Stark and their rage at these events would be enormous, saying that it simply wasn't possible that Eddard Stark could have committed treason. Indeed, the paper which had covered the shocking events in Kings Landing had quoted 'sources with names suppressed for their protection' in claiming that Ned Stark had only confessed to his 'crimes' because Joffery had threatened to do to his daughters what the Mad King had done to his Father and Brother, with him watching the whole time. Bending only to try and save his daughters from a horrible death and getting executed for doing so.

Indeed, he had pointed to the words of Theon Greyjoy - his only words in this special issue alongside lengthy speachs from other Starks and Bannermen- in that Newspaper as perhaps the greatest and truest words of wisdom yet from the famous man. Saying in one sentence what others took pages of furious denunciations to put forward.

 _I fear that all 'King' Joffrey has done is to awaken a sleeping giant ... and fill it with the most terrible resolve._

The words were very poetic - but as she read on, they also seemed chillingly prophetic.

The North had struck with a fury and speed that she didn't think anyone had expected – even capturing Jamie Lannister in their first battle. Ser Barristan who had served alongside the the man had seemed to be shocked at the news, having been certain that no-one would _ever_ be able to take him alive. And to the Lannisters, surely the sense of shock would be far greater when they saw the picture of the Kingslayer sullenly standing there in chains. It seemed that all the skill in the world with a sword had not helped the man when he had run into one 'Torrhen Karstark', one of Robb Starks bodyguards, as he tried to cut his way to the Young Wolf. Torrhen had used something called a 'sawn off Viper' to blast the Lannister Knight off his feet to crash to the ground. Stunned, a swift boot to the head from Greatjon Umber quickly ended his participation in the battle and witnessing their champion felled so casually, the remains of the Lannister force had swiftly thrown down their arms and surrendered.

Indeed, the Kingslayer falling to Northern technology seemed to be a precursor for how this war would go on a larger scale. Quite impressive maps in the next issue made following the war easy even for her, showing the movements of armies and locations of engagements. Combined 'Battle reports' from Eddard Shorthand and others alongside photographs that didn't attempt to hide the ugly aftermath of war, it showed the Northern Army seeming to be as unstoppable as the Winter itself as it marched South, smashing anything stupid enough to get in its way. Indeed, so successfully was the progress she would have dismissed most of the words as exaggerations or propaganda - if not for the pictures of fields littered with bodies in Lannister livery, and columns of lost looking Lannister prisoners being led into basic but surprisingly hospitable looking prisons ('shell shock' the paper helpfully supplied the term for the hopeless look in their eyes).

Another valuable lesson learned; pictures in newspapers were arguably a _more_ powerful weapon than the Norths mighty cannons. They spoke with an authority almost beyond question because she could _see_ exactly what was claimed. Even she, despite trying to hold a skeptical and neutral mind, _wanted_ to believe what she saw without question, the combination of the words and pictures was almost magically intoxicating.

Truly, the amount of information presented about the Norths campaign would have otherwise been unbelievable given how valuable it had to be to an enemy, but Ser Jorah had pointed out that by the time the paper was published, it wouldn't be anything the Lannisters Generals didn't already know in terms of movements and rough strength and how badly their own forces had been mauled. But to everyone else in the Kingdoms who read it or read it and passed on the stories, the news would show a single message that would be made abundantly clear.

The North is _strong_.  
The North is _coming_.  
The North _remembers._  
And the North _cannot be stopped._

Perhaps the best example of this propaganda had been the newest newspaper to arrive which had a full page picture on its front page. Simply labeled ' **Justice!** ', it was the So-called King in the North standing atop the corpse of 'The Mountain that Rides' at the Golden Tooth. Ser Jorah had been stunned upon seeing it grabbing the paper from the pile her Bloodriders had just purchased that day as they waited for their afternoon appointment with the Good Masters – and the shook in his face was soon shared by Ser Barristan before they had handed it to her. Her curiosity over their reactions and the picture of a massive figure lying dead had given way to shock and horror as she had read the article on the page overleaf however. For it had spelt out not simply the horrible crimes this man had performed against the people of the Riverlands, but also his shocking confession just before he died of what he had been done to her Good Sister, Niece and Nephew in the Red Keep so many years ago.

 _"First I KILLED her children! Then I RAPED her! Then I KILLED her!"_

She had _not_ been prepared to read that and had needed to leave for her room when she felt her composure slipping, weeping behind closed doors for a time until she could regather herself.

Her horror and shock had eventually passed to a morbid curiosity as she had continued to read the paper in private, which had taken the time to recount the infamous life and legend of the man now dead at the hands of the Young Wolf, with a unique Northern point of view. Apparently, the slaying of her family in Kings Landing had been a sore point between Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. She had been initially skeptical of the claim but again Ser Barriston had confirmed that it was common knowledge in the Red Keep that Ned and Robert had gotten into a heated shouting match with each other over the matter. Ned horrified at what had been done to innocents that Robert Baratheon had dismissed as 'Dragonspawn'. Then, adding that during Eddards short reign as Hand of the King, Ned Stark –along with himself- had been the only people to object the Roberts plans to assassinate her and her unborn child, even to the point of resigning his position over it until the events that led to the war had overtaken them all.

Now, as she idly read through the rest of the newspaper not dedicated to War (the column from Oberyn Martell was _highly_ entertaining, probably mildly blasphemous and certain to make Lannister teeth grind from its thinly veiled insults towards their family) she couldn't help but measure herself against Eddard Stark. By all accounts, a true leader beloved by his people to the point that they were almost a realm gone mad with rage as they poured into the South, determined to dig the 'Incest King' as he was often named out from the Red Keep 'stone by bloody stone' if they had to.

Who did she have who would fight for _her_ that way?

She had ever been convinced that her _duty_ was to return home, to take up the Throne that had been stolen from her for the good of the people. Even now, she was here to try and _purchase a slave army_ to help accomplish it … and why?

Because she _didn't have anyone_ _in the Seven Kingdoms who had declared for her Banner_.

Oh there were rumors and speculation from Ser Jorah and Ser Barriston aplenty about 'loyalists' who would jump at the chance, but increasingly as she read about the civil war – and her families legacy in the Mad King who had apparently deserved the title; she wondered how much of that was truth and how much was wishful thinking. Her Brother had not become known as the Beggar King and 'sold' her to her late husband because he had plenty of other options after all!

If she returned to the Seven Kingdoms, with an army of slave soldiers and two Knights as her only supporters … she _might_ be able to take Kings Landing, but to what end? How many Bannermen would then stand for her? How many would stand instead for the Lords they were even now fighting and dying for? How many would stand against her, horrified at the 'supporters' she had for her claim? She had seen it in the eyes even of a man who had sworn himself to her - the respect for Eddard Stark that still burned him, despite the fact that he had been the reason for his exile. How many people from Westeross did she have who would look that way at her?

Exactly two.

No. No, she couldn't simply sail into Kings landing an expect all to bow before her. An all but unknown girl with a name who had not spent one day in their lands, what reason did they have to bow to her? Even if her Dragons were full sized and ready to fight, even if the North did not have its new technology that might make her trump card ineffective; what kind of Queen would she be, what kind of rule would she _bring_ if all that kept people bending the knee to her was the threat of being burned alive?

'The Mad Queen' they would call her. 'Like Father like Daughter'.

Energized, she started to realize that her thinking had clearly been backwards – she had been thinking like her _brother,_ not thinking for _herself_. It wasn't enough to have a _claim_ to the Iron Throne … she had to prove herself _worthy_ of the people she wished to rule - to _lead._ To _prove_ in their eyes that she was worthy of Kings Landing and the Seven Kingdoms after her Father had served them so poorly. She saw in these papers that Robb Stark had no real desire for the Iron Throne himself, decalring himself 'The King in the North and Trident' and independent of Kings Landing, although she suspected he could be brought back into the fold with calm, careful and patient negotiations and a ruler _worthy_ of his and his peoples allegiance.

So the question remained; how would _she_ prove herself worthy?

Sighing, she leaned back in her chair, rubbing at the back of the neck as she stood and walked to the window of her room, hoping some fresh air might clear her head. She had an excellent view of the city and ocean beyond ... but her attention was drawn down to the street as she heard a cry of pain.

There, no the street below her window, a group of young boys were being dragged through the streets, probably no older than five or six years old. Dressed only in loincloths and with their wrists bound to the boy in front of them, pushed and yelled at to keep moving by a number of cruel looking men. They were crying, staggering and looking terrified to the point that her heart seized up as one hopeless gaze momentarily met hers before glancing away in fear. One of them stumbled and at once was set upon by the man leading them as the boy pulled the rest to a halt, whipped twice harshly. Screams tore from his throat and another of the boys further up the line cried out in response in mangled Valyrian before the guards rounded on _him_ in turn and _he_ started screaming under the lash.

Her stomach clenched at the word.

 _Brother.  
_  
Feeling sick, she realized that these were a new group of children being dragged off to be turned into more Unsullied - including close family no doubt taken in some raid or war and sold off to the 'Wise Masters'. Quickly they were hauled to their feet and forced to continue forward with the group, sobbing and terrified until they moved out of sight around the corner …

And she realized that _not one person_ on the streets had so much as glanced at the event.

Not the Masters who walked past without slowing down with utter indifference.

Not their slaves, who shuffled along behind them, their eyes downcast and blank as their chains _clinked_ softly.

And as her eyes slowly tracked up from the street, they happened to settle on the giant Harpy that squatted at the edge of the city in the far distance.

And in a moment of perfect clarity Daenerys 'Stormborn' Targaryen knew _exactly_ where she would begin her quest to _prove_ herself worthy of the Iron Throne.

 **XXXV: Westeros Wedding Crashers, Part 5**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands  
_  
 **Margaery  
**

The Riverrun battlements offered a beautiful view of the Red Fork, and the large army camp down below. Margaery enjoyed watching from above, seeing the soldiers jogging in groups, practicing with weapons, eating, relaxing, fishing-Even a few went swimming, enjoying some scandalous hooting from a few lower-born ladies. A continuous stream of convoys of carriages and wagons arrived hourly, bringing supplies and taking back everything from mail to the seriously wounded. All of it under banners baring a great gray direwolf, with the accompanying house banner. The wind blew up the smells of hot steel, outdoor cooking, and the rich fragrance of the trees, and Margaery sniffed it in with a soft smile.

"Good morning," said a familiar voice, and Margaery resisted her urge to jump. She looked coyly over her shoulder as Robb approached, his wolf padding by him in equal silence. It had become a bit unnerving, the fact her future husband and king could move so _silently..._ Like a predator...

But she'd soon discovered her king's weakness, and it was a _very_ pleasing one to her ego.

"You could have announced your presence in a more... Intimate fashion, your Grace," she said with a warm smile, just adding a hint of sultriness. "After all... You caught me completely by surprise."

Robb's cheeks burned red, and even his newly grown beard did nothing to hide it.

"I uh... I thought it impolite," Robb said gently. Margaery smirked a bit as he stood beside her. She scooted up next to him, and rested a hand on his forearm.

"You are king... And you do enjoy hunting, so why not stay in practice?" She asked softly. Robb coughed and laughed at the same time, unsure of how to react.

"You'd like me to hunt you?" He asked.

"Is that not how wolves do it?" Margaery asked, sounding almost innocent. She stroked Grey Wind's head, and the direwolf breathed out in a sigh of pleasure. Robb snorted.

"Wolves meet under moonlight and howl at the moon..."

"How romantic," Margaery said, beaming at him. "Do you howl well, my Lord? Or do you need... Help?"

Robb coughed, and gripped the battlements. Margaery smiled, and squeezed his forearm. She offered a gentle nuzzle to his shoulder, and he rubbed the back of his head like the unsure teenager he was behind his kingly nature.

"I think I could teach _you_ a few things, my lady," he bit back, defiant. Margaery laughed, covering her mouth.

"Oh really? Like what?" She asked enchantingly. Robb licked his lips, and found himself staring into her eyes.

"Well... I... Well, wolves... Mate for life, and are ever loyal to the one they choose," he said, wincing internally. It clearly sounded better in his head, and Margaery chuckled gently.

"That's good to know," she said. "I'd hate to think you'd pass me up for the next piece of tail to make you howl."

"Y-You haven't made me howl!" Robb protested. Margaery slowly tilted her eyes up, and smiled at the now very red king.

"Not _yet..."  
_  
" _Oh for the sake of all the Gods, will you two kiss already?"_ Theon's voice sounded, making them both look around. The genius was nowhere to be found, and Robb scowled.

"Theon! Where are you?"

" _Over here,"_ his voice responded, sounding a bit distorted-As though he was yelling though a wall. Grey Wind's ears perked up, and he padded over to a box sitting on the battlement. He took it in his teeth, and pulled it off... A strange horn-like contraption. Robb blinked in disbelief, and kneeled down to examine it.

"Theon? What... What is this?"

" _Well..."_ And Theon himself walked up the stairs to the battlement, wearing an odd contraption. The first part went around his neck and looked like an oversized crown, with the rounded peak in front of his mouth. The second part was a very heavy looking backpack, covered in wires and cylinders. "Think of it as an electronic raven. Instead of sending text though, I can send sound."

Robb's eyes instantly brightened in astonishment, and Margaery had to admit it was indeed almost miraculous.

"You mean... That radio thing? You perfected it?" Robb asked excitedly, studying the device with an almost childlike glee. Theon shrugged modestly.

"Well, I figured out how to build it... Qyburn and Luwin figured out how to make it tough enough I can lug it around like this without breaking anything. Range is still pretty limited, maybe two miles. A heavier set on a balloon might extend it out to eight, maybe ten miles." Theon grimaced. "Sorry it's not better but-"

"Theon, you've created a miracle and all you can do is apologize that it isn't _better,"_ Robb laughed, hugging his brother in all but blood. "Just think of the possibilities for the army with this!"

"I have," Theon said with a smile, "which is why we're checking out about a dozen of them with the army commanders. We could get... Maybe another dozen done and sent down here in a month, maybe two."

"Good," Robb said with a nod. "Just in time for us to march on King's Landing."

Theon frowned. "Thought you were going to let the diplomats have their say?"

Robb looked out at the army, and sighed. "I am," he admitted. "And if we work out _something_ , then they won't... But I won't stop preparation in case we must."

Theon nodded. "Right..." He turned to Margaery with an apologetic smile. "Sorry to interrupt your time together, My Lady. But you know, enthusiasm at scientific progress and all."

"I quite understand," Margaery said, hiding her disappointment. Theon picked up the radio transceiver set, scowling a bit at Grey Wind (who had tried to chew on it).

"No. Now stay and try to help your king with his smooching-He is just _absolutely horrible_ at it," Theon said. "I mean, he's got to kiss her tomorrow evening and they haven't even practiced!"

"I don't _need practice!"_ Robb protested. "And you ruined the-the moment!"

Theon shrugged. "Maybe you can fix it..." He looked at Margaery and winked, "take it easy on him, first time and all. I mean, he didn't give you that _wolves mate for life_ thing did he?"

Margaery managed to keep from laughing, as Robb glared death.

"I-I-That is not a _thing_ I do!"

"You just did though," Theon said cheerfully. "And-Yes, if she had a tail, it might be wagging-"

Grey Wind jumped on Theon and licked him with a growl, pushing him towards the stairs.

"ACK! HEY! NO FAIR!" Theon cried, as the wolf chased him off. Robb glared after them, exasperated, his eyes... Were they yellow for a moment? Maybe just Margaery's imagination...

"So... We were having a moment, Your Grace?" Margaery asked gently. Robb flushed, and rubbed his temples.

"I... I am sorry, my Lady," he said, "I know Southern manners are more... Refined, and my men are all..."

"Assholes?" Margaery asked. Robb stared at her for a moment, and then smiled.

"Yeah," he said. Margaery laughed, and wrapped her arms around his waist. She looked up at him.

"Well... Assholes they may be, but they might have a point," she said coquettishly. "Perhaps you _do_ need some practice... It wouldn't hurt, would it?"

"Well... I..." Robb managed. Margaery smiled, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him briefly... Which turned much longer, as his arms came around her and their lips and tongue began to meld and _heat_ exploded across their-

"ROBB!" Catelyn Stark barked. Robb separated from Margaery, face red.

"M-MOTHER!"

"Wait until the wedding night!" She cried in exasperation, shaking her head before she turned back to the handmaidens, Amarda Honn... And Ramsay Snow. "Now you are sure the lights and speakers will be set up properly by tonight...?"

"Of course," Amarda said, adjusting her glasses. "The Frey band has already arrived and-"

"And they'll be playing back up to _my band,_ My Lady," Ramsay said with a smirk. "The North knows how to... _Rock,_ after all."

Catelyn sighed. "Fine, but not too loud."

"Loud is the entire point!" Ramsay protested as they passed by. Margaery and Robb watched them go, and looked back at one another.

"... Maybe we should practice... You know... Somewhere more private?" Robb asked. Margaery smiled gently, and kissed his hand.

"I think... You're quite fine for tomorrow," she said. Robb's face fell a bit. "But don't worry... We will practice _all_ you like, after the wedding."

And he smiled. Grey Wind howled, and his blush grew worse. "GREY WIND!"

Margaery giggled.


	15. Omakes and XXXVI

**The Northern Army**

 **Supreme Commander:** King Robb Stark, First of his Name

 **Commander, First Northern Corps:** Lord Greatjon Umber, House Umber

~5000 men

 **Commander, Second Northern Corps:** Lord Roose Bolton

~5000 men

 **Commander, Third Northern Corps:** Lord Rickard Karstark

~5000 men

 **Commander, Fourth Northern Corps:** Lord Medger Cerwyn

~5000 men

 **Commander, Northern Cavalry Corps:** Ser Brynden Tully, House Tully

~2500 men

 **Commander, Northern Engineering Corps:** Lord Donnel Locke, House Locke

~1500 men

 **Commander, Northern Logistics Corps:** Lord Donnel Mertyn, House Mertyn

~3500 men

 **Commander, Banners of the Riverlands, First River Corps:** Lord Edmure Tully

~2500 men

 **OMAKE: Amidst a Company of Men All Golden…**

***

The young Griff sighed at his father's... Jon's... visible despondence. Ever since Lysono Maar had found old issues of the _Westeros Despoiler_ being sold in Myr only a year ago, Griff's adopted father and mentor Jon Connington, had led all efforts in keeping up with current events in Westeros. What the serjeants and the officers had gleaned was... depressing, to say the least. After reading of the North using their advances to successfully cut a wide swath through Tywin Lannister's forces, Captain-General Strickland had been even more reluctant to have the Golden Company declare for the young Griff, who'd only recently been told that he was actually Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, and the only true heir to the Iron Throne of Westeros.

Oh, the Golden Company had caught snatches stories about the North's newfound prosperity. How could they not? It seemed like the Free Cities could talk of nothing else for the last few years, even beyond their petty wars with each other. The Northern Westerosi idea of "newspapers" had been quickly echoed in Braavos and Pentos, being the first and most visible of what was already being considered the most visible change in Essos in recent centuries, the likes of which hadn't been seen since the loss of old Valyria.

Young Griff had heard that Volantis was putting out their own publication. Called "The Triarch Tabloid", the first newspaper of Volantis mirrored the _Pentos Post_ in that it was all about sensation. If the headlines weren't squawking about scandals or murders, they were spreading rumors and gossip about the nobility. Not even the Triarchs were safe from the reach of the first ever Volantene publication. These days, anyone in Volantis who could read now picked up a copy of the _Triarch Tabloid_ simply to fuel their new hunger for gossip and entertainment; the paper's contents became new fodder for discussion at social gatherings, after all. Even the nobility and Triarchs got into the act in the end, using the _Tabloid_ to obliquely attack their rivals and social and political enemies in the editorial section, which quickly got so big that it became a tabloid within the _Tabloid_.

But while the Golden Company saw the _Triarch_ _Tabloid_ as good for laughs, the _Westeros Despoiler_ had worried Captain-General Strickland and his officers. Since the _Westeros Despoiler_ listed current events in Westeros, even if it was focused on the North where it had been founded and established, it still gave a first-hand and up-to-date inside look at the wheeling and dealing involved of the North's new prosperity and social change. Even its smallfolk were getting in on all this action, and that never really happened aside from the odd lucky merchant. There had even been rumors that the Company of the Rose was actually becoming interested in Westerosi current events in ways that they hadn't been ever since their band had first been founded.

This publication had been quite forward in displaying signs of the North's new wealth and ever-growing standard of living. The concept of "photographs", which apparently captured the image of something so that it could be put on paper, allowed for greater insight into House Stark's new wellspring of riches than anyone might have conceived of at first glance. Such was the case with the Golden Company's overall focus; the North's brand-new weapons.

Theon the Clever. Boom-Squid. Thunder-Hammer. Storm-Breaker.

Whatever anyone cared to call him, Theon Greyjoy was the man ultimately responsible for giving the North the new tools they needed to crush Tywin Lannister's forces underfoot in battle. Because the Gods hadn't made men equal to each other; that fact was plain as day to anyone who cared to look at life beyond their own lives. No; Theon Greyjoy's weapons had made men equal. Equally vulnerable to death, thanks to his new weapons designs that the North had taken up with such enthusiasm.

The effects of Theon Greyjoy's work came to a head in issues of the _Westeros Despoiler_ plastering pictures of corpses in visible Westerlander livery that revealed the horrors that could be achieved by new Northern weaponry.

Gruesome wounds that tore off hands and arms and legs.

Castle walls damaged by the effects of something that was not the work of any known type of siege weapon.

Corpses with pieces of skin and even flesh flayed from bone.

A lucky shot of armsmen in a Lannister host being hurled every which ways away from an explosion of dirt and flying rock, even into their own comrades.

Men torn in half at the knees and the hips and even at the chest.

All in all, a very big obstacle to the ambitions and claims of Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name.

But what had really driven home the image of Northern military superiority was the recent " **JUSTICE!** " issue of the _Westeros Despoiler_ , its front page depicting Ned Stark's son Robb (newly-crowned King in the North and the Trident) standing triumphantly over the corpse of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides. Known all across Westeros as Tywin Lannister's preferred attack dog, this latest issue had also disclosed the Mountain's history of rapine, rape, murder, and indiscriminate violence in general. Nothing new to anyone who'd been exiled from Westeros in the last fifteen years, but the article had also revealed that the Mountain had admitted to raping and murdering Rhaegar Targaryen's spurned wife, Elia of Dorne, and also killing her two children. Just before Northern valor had succeeded in killing him where all previous attempts had failed.

Septa Lemore had later explained to Aegon that the boy that everybody thought was him had actually been a stand-in, arranged by a figure called "the Spider", whilst he had been spirited away to safety beforehand. But this image of Gregor Clegane's corpse had been the stick that broke the elephant's back with Harry Strickland. Between the images of the mauled and mutilated corpses and survivors, and the officers' fears over the idea that the rest of the world had yet to see the full force of the North's new weapons, "Homeless" Harry had refused to land in Westeros. They would have to face the North in battle eventually, he said, and he had no intention of seeing his men or elephant war-mounts being torn to pieces by Northern weapons. Especially since they seemed to have no way of countering Theon Greyjoy's advancements on the battlefield. The officers of the Golden Company had agreed.

Jon Connington was despondent. Harry Strickland seemed content to fight in the Disputed Lands on behalf of Myr, and Septa Lemore was of no help at all. These developments left Aegon adrift, still devouring every scrap of news from Westeros (including that recent article from his uncle-by-blood, Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne) but able to do little else.

Maybe the news of his aunt Daenerys setting herself up in Slaver's Bay could change things…

 **XXXVI: The Man that Once did Sell the Lion's Skin, Part 2**

 _AC 300, King's Landing  
_  
 **Tywin  
**  
The Small Council meeting was held without the King, as per usual. Joffrey was off doing something with the Lannister army forces-Something _useful_ , Tywin hoped, but it would probably be too much to ask. The way things were going though, it wouldn't matter if the little brat was finally displaying some common sense.

The newspaper in his hands was ample proof of that. The large picture on the front, of Robb Stark and Margaery Tyrell meeting and _gazing_ into eachother's eyes under the North's banners with such _saccharine_ expressions...

"' **Royal Wedding Announced,** "" Tywin sneered. "signals new alliance between the Commonwealth of the North and the Reach. The seamstress Kiara Malls is booked to make the warddrobe for the entire wedding party and...' What is this nonsense?!" He crumpled the paper up and tossed it aside. "Mockery! Mockery and japery, that's all it is!"

His daughter nodded in agreement, holding her own newspaper. Why she was here, he didn't know, but he tolerated it as long as she said nothing foolish.

"We are supposed to be maintaining a truce, Lord Hand," Varys observed, "spreading such news improves their morale and the morale of the North. While, sad to say, ours is not nearly as robust."

"This newspaper concept is really quite amazing," Petyr Baelish said, a copy open in his hands. "Giving away so much information... And yet not needing to hide it. Why should they? The power they have ensures it comes off as bragging more than anything else after the fact..."

"I've seen Kiara Malls' work... Strictly overrated," Pycelle sniffed. He received many strange looks for that. The Grand Maester shrugged. "Poor fashion is bad luck for a marriage. It might bode well for us."

Tywin looked heavenward for some kind of sign of reassurance. None was forthcoming, so he looked back at the Small Council in disgust. "Yes, and if I have _need_ for a Grand Master of Women's _Frippery,_ I shall consult with you!" Tywin snarled, and Pycelle winced. He sighed and sat back down, rubbing his chin. His nephew, Lancel Lannister, was sitting uneasily at his side in his father's stead.

"If... I may ask, my Lords," Lancel began, "a foolish question to be sure, but... It seems impossible that we couldn't have seen this coming, correct?"

He gained many stares, and he flushed a bit-Particularly under Cersei's gaze. Tywin didn't know why. Tywin instead looked at his masters with a wry expression.

"A foolish... No. A sensible question," Tywin said with a nod. "Not a surprise it would come from my brother's son."

Lancel flushed again. Tywin looked at Petyr Baelish.

"After all... Surely the Master of the Coin had _some_ knowledge of the North's expanding economic fortunes?" Tywin asked directly. Petyr just smiled.

"My Lord Hand... My Lord Lancel, do understand that at the time, the prosperity of the North was a boon to our kingdom and to the Crown," Littlefinger said. "Indeed, their tax revenues had more than tripled over the last five years. But the fact they kept much of this new technology to themselves... That was a bit unusual."

"Plotting insurrection all this time," Cersei said. "It wouldn't surprise me, the beasts. And that _squid_ with them-The worst of the lot!"

"As much as I would like to agree, Your Grace," Varys interrupted, "the revolution in industry of the North was most likely not intended for use exclusively against us. Indeed, given Theon Greyjoy's status as a hostage, it is more likely he was attempting to please the late Lord Stark." Varys folded his hands in front of himself, "and indeed, who could have forseen the events that led to this war breaking out? Only our beloved King knew his own mind..."

"And now we pay for his foolishness," Tywin snorted. "A 'sleeping giant' indeed..."

"A sleeping giant foolish enough to brag about their wedding to the people," Cersei sneered. "Don't you see, Father? This is a moment of weakness! We could strike now and-"

"Out in the open, our forces are easily annihilated," Tywin said. "This has been demonstrated time and again, or have you failed to notice the absence of your brother at my side?"

Tywin's sarcasm shut Cersei up, and he was able to ignore her petulant scowl. He looked to Pycelle. "Grand Maester? You were going to report on our progress with thunderarms of our own?"

"Oh, yes My Lord, forgive me, age catching up," Pycelle murmured, leaning forward. "Many nobles have donated their thunderarms-Ones bought as novelties or hunting weapons before the war, of course... Reproducing them is proving a bit troublesome... Especially in the sheer numbers compared to the North-"

"If you have to melt down the Iron Throne to make enough, you will," Tywin said coldly. He looked around. "Any other significant news?" He glanced at Varys. The Spider smiled.

"Lord Kevan and Lord Tyrion have arrived at the wedding safely enough. Your esteemed son and nephews remain in good health, albeit still prisoners-"

"As long as they are not attacking, my _son_ and _nephews_ can wait... A bit longer," Tywin managed. Cersei squeezed her eyes shut. "In the meantime, continue preparations. Baelish! You promised us the Vale. You will deliver it."

"I do as my Lord Hand commands," Baelish said with a smile and a bow. The council broke up, everyone leaving... Save for Lancel, who sat anxiously at Tywin's side. The Lord of Casterly Rock looked over at his nephew with a scowl.

"Yes?"

"Uncle," Lancel began. He paused, but steeled himself to continue. "My father... He told me he was trying to bring peace."

"By allowing the North and the Trident to remain independent, and my grandson king of half a kingdom," Tywin sneered. He sighed. "Yes... For now," he admitted. "The problem with your father's plan is that the cold _won't_ stop the North... They can survive longer in it than us." He looked at the ceiling. "Come spring... We might have thunderers of our own, but the confidence of our banners...? That we won't have."

Tywin stood up and stalked to the window. Lancel watched him, and his lord uncle sighed.

"We have two kingdoms, at best... How many will Robb Stark have before the end? Four? Five?" He gripped the windowsill. "We're suspended by a thread..."

"We could... We could run," Lancel suggested. Tywin spun around and glared, but Lancel gulped. "I... I mean, if the worse comes to pass..."

"What, and go into exile like the Targaryans?" Tywin sneered. "Nobles begging for favor?"

"Connections with Essos... Might make that easier, if we do it now," Lancel suggested. "I don't like to run, Uncle... But with the way things are going...?"

Tywin glared at him for a long time. Lancel fidgeted, and looked aside.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"Go tend to your troops," Tywin said flatly, "prepare them."

Lancel nodded, rose, and walked off. He passed by a girl wearing a shawl and a bandanna over her mouth, which got her a strange look. The girl went by, carrying a plate of food and water. She entered, and set it on the table behind Tywin. Tywin turned back from the window, and raised a pale eyebrow.

"What are you wearing?" He asked. The girl averted her eyes.

"A mourning shawl, my lord," Arya said. "My family... Has been taken prisoner in this war."

Tywin stared at her... And slowly nodded. "Hmph... I've never cared for such traditions..." He looked out the window, "but... You may continue to mourn as you wish."

"Thank you, my Lord," Arya said, keeping her gratefulness to a proper level. Tywin looked back outside, and Arya took the chance to grab a newspaper.

"There's no need to hide it," Tywin snorted, and Arya paused. "You want a connection with home, do you not?" He looked back at her. "And I keep track of the newspapers."

Arya lowered her eyes. "Yes, my Lord," she said softly.

"You do sneak around a great deal," Tywin observed.

"When one is a Northerner in the heart of their enemy, one should be cautious," Arya said carefully. Tywin smirked.

"Think you'll lose favor with me, girl?"

"Many Northerners have here, my Lord," Arya said. Tywin nodded.

"And you've seen their heads on the Keep walls," he said. Arya was still for a long, silent moment. Tywin shook his head, and took some of the bread and cheese from the plate to eat. "I don't blame you for resentment..." He sighed. "I too... Know how it was to be weak."

"My Lord?" Arya asked. Tywin looked aside, far into the past.

"My father was a kind, generous man... Who lacked the will to be a Lord Paramount. He let everyone, lowborn or highborn, walk all over him. Humiliate us, humiliate our _family..._ I had to put up with such humiliation, time and again." He looked at Arya with steely grey eyes. "And it brought about rebellion..."

"The Reynes of Castamere," Arya said. Tywin smirked a bit.

"Familiar with that bit of history, hm girl? Your stonecutter father take an interest in Westerland histories?"

"I just like reading about sieges and battles," Arya said. "And knowing the difference between the strong and the weak..."

Tywin nodded. "Good knowledge to have... _Dangerous_ knowledge," he said.

"What have you to fear from me, My Lord?" Arya asked innocently. "I'm just a serving girl."

The old lion slowly nodded. "Yes... And the North was a backwater."

They held gazes for a time, Arya's heart pounding in her chest. Tywin looked back to his meal, and rose.

"I have too much work to do," he said. "Take the rest for yourself..."

"Thank you, My Lord," Arya said, as Tywin headed out. She sat in the chair, nibbling on the food. Poisoning him wouldn't do any good-Too obvious. Too easy. No... She had to make it look like an accident...

She glanced at the newspaper, and smiled a bit. Her brother was marrying an annoying girly girl... But he was still winning. And Theon was still by his side-Looking as irreverent as always. And her mother...

She sighed. It was risky, it was... But she knew she had to do it. So with that in mind, she folded her newspaper under her apron and headed out.

 **Sansa**

An hour later, Sansa Stark found a copy of a newspaper sitting by her door. She stooped to pick it up, but was stopped by the Hound. He picked it up and made sure there was nothing amiss... And then handed it to her.

"Your brother is getting married," he grunted. Sansa looked at it, and smiled softly.

"Yes, he is," she said quietly. She thought she heard something, and looked behind her. A serving girl with a shawl was bustling down the hall... She didn't know why, but it let her hold her smile a bit longer.

\- - - - -

 **Omake - On the Logicistics of Thunder**

 _AC 300, Kings Landing_

Grandmaester Pycelle frowned as he hobbled over to the workshop's table. "I hope there is an excellent reason for bringing me here, Master Kurk: I was in the middle of counseling a young lady on the intricacies of -"

"Grandmaester, I don't care who you've been diddling, we're in trouble," interrupted Kurk, who was one of the senior craftsmen on the thunderarm project.

Pycelle's eyes became clearer as he focused on the younger man. "What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?" he asked, fingering the links on his long chain.

"Look, we've got all these thunderarms," Kurk gestured behind him, and true enough many such weapons were stacked against the wall and on tables, along with other related paraphernalia. "Notice a pattern?"

Pycelle frowned. "I ... I'm afraid I do not," he admitted.

"Exactly," snorted Kurk. He reached over and picked up a hefty musket, the stock ornately carved and chased with silver. "Here's a pretty typical one. Good workmanship, lovely decorations, good action. Quality weapon, really. Now," he pointed to the table, where a pile of lead balls were sitting. "Grab me one of those. Any one."

Putting aside the dignity of his position for a moment, Pycelle hovered his hand over the pile, and examined the balls, then picked one of the largest ones. "Here," he offered it to the craftsman.

"Alright: let's see if it fits." He put the butt of the weapon on the ground, and placed the ball at the muzzle ... only for the ball to sit there on top. "That's the problem, right there."

"Speak plainly, man, I have no time for your riddles!"

Kurk sighed. "The ball is too big: it won't fit in the barrel."

"Then use a smaller one! It's not like you're trying to decypher Valyrian glyphs, you know!"

"Grandmaester, the problem is that each of these weapons requires a certain sized ball. Some," he lifted the ball Pycelle had chosen, "Are this size, what the Northmen call a '.70', or seven tenths of an inch across. Well, it's smaller than our good Westerlands inch, but that's not important. It's far too big for this 'musket', which requires a ball no larger than '.65'. Issuing balls this size to our thundermen would be worse than useless!"

Pycelle groaned. "Then we must find the smallest required ball size, and issue them to each of our men!"

"I'm afraid that would not work either: part of the way these weapons work is that the ball must be large enough to almost fill the barrel: too small, and it falls out, or fails to fly far from the barrel when fired. No, the fact of the matter is that we have need of at least eight different types of ball, and we have to issue only the right size to each man. True, every thunderarm was sold with a mold for ammunition, but few of these came to us with them, their owners having thrown them away, or didn't think to include them when they sent them to us. We are working to make new molds, but it is damnable complicated to get it right ... and a thunderarm with the wrong ammunition is little more than a clumsy club."

Pycelle sighed. "I see. I can understand why this has you perturbed: most frustrating."

"And that's not the worst of it," Kurk continued, and Pycelle raised an eyebrow. "We've seen reports of Northern musketeers making incredible shots: fully three hundred yards or more. Yet when we try and replicate this, we find that our own men are quite incapable of matching their range. It doesn't matter how good an archer we find, or how long they practice, beyond a hundred or so yards, a musket is completely inaccurate! Often, it doesn't just miss the target, but misses so badly we cannot find the ball afterwards!"

Pycelle blinked. "I had no idea the Northerners had such an advantage. Do you have any idea of how they manage this?"

Kurk ran his fingers through his hair. "No. Oh, I've got some ideas: it seems that if the ball is sized just right, and only barely fits into the barrel, it seems to fly further and straighter, but that's not enough to make the kind of shots they do." He hesitated. "There is something, though," he reached into a pocket of his apron and pulled out a misshapen lump of lead. "One of our men came back with a bullet wound. They had to remove his arm, but when they did, they found this in the wound: we think it's the bullet they fired at him."

The Grandmaester turned the object over in his hands. "It looks different from ours."

Kurk nodded. "Yes, and that's got me thinking: maybe there's something different about their thunderarms, something that makes them shoot straighter than ours. I think it has something to do with the shape of the bullet: see, it looks like a helmet, rather than a ball, long and pointed. Or at least it did before it flattened on the soldier's bones and flesh. Could it be something like," he groped at the air, as though reaching for ideas, "How a galley cuts through the water better than a river barge, because the bow is sharper? Like a sharp knife through meat, rather than a butter knife?"

The greyhair shook his head. "I'm afraid the magics of the Northmen are quite beyond my understanding at this time. The Citadel has some of their best minds working on it, but we are many years behind, as before now there was little interest in the Northmen's toys." He looked up. "Do we at least have any success with making our own thunderarms?"

Kurk shrugged. "The big ones are easy enough, although you've got to watch them. Pack in too much powder, and they can blow up like the Doom, and you've got to train up a new crew to replace the dead and wounded. And like the muskets, they're nowhere near as long ranged or accurate as the ones the Northmen use, but already we're making better ones than Lord Tyrion had made during the seige. I mean, those worked, but not well, and we had to scrap most of them after.

"The muskets ... well, finding good steel for the springs in the flintlock mechanisms is hard, but we've managed to improvise," he picked up a roughtly crated musket, heavy and unlovely. Instead of the familiar action, there was what looked like a length of cord attached to a metal arm. "This is a kind of rope that we've treated with some gunk to make it burn slowly: the alchemists put us onto it."

"Dangerous fools," complained Pycelle.

"Maybe, but it works," continued Kurk. "So, the slow-rope burns slowly, so you can light it before the fight, but when you're ready to fire, you pull on this lever we modified from a crossbow," he placed the weapon at his shoulder and wrapped his fingers around the long lever beneath the action, "It lowers the arm here," he squeezed, and the arm moved down, pressing the end of the cord against a hole in the barrel. "And when the slow-rope touches the powder in the hole, it goes off."

"Hmmm," said Pycelle. "It seems ... somewhat less complicated, if inelegant."

"And dangerous," added Kurk. "I haven't been working with these weapons long, but one of the first things we learned was that any time you have something burning around loose powder, it's likely to cause things to explode. And even with our best iron barrels, they sometimes explode, too: we have no idea why." He sighed in frustration. "Sometimes I wish we could just use crossbows, but I've seen a man puick up one of these for the first time, learn how to use it in a few minutes, then after a couple of hours practice is able to hit a target ... if it's close enough. Even crossbows take longer to master."

"So, to sum up," said Pycelle, "We have a good number of muskets that are not as accurate as those of the Northmen, nor as long ranged, that are hard to keep supplied with the right ammunition. We can make our own muskets, but they are not as good even as those we already have, are slower and more dangerous to use, and even less accurate. Can we at least make them in large quantities?"

"Not really. Because all the parts need to fit together a lot better than for a crossbow, we can't even have different craftsmen make each part, so that every musket requires a single craftsmen to make it, which slows things down a lot. I've heard stories about the Northerners making these in huge numbers, in large factories, but I honestly have no idea how they're doing it. I really, really wish I did," he said, his face growing sad. "I am a loyal Westerman, Grandmaester, and a loyal subject of the Iron Throne. I want to do all I can to ensure our victory over the rebels ... but I can't just wave my hands and create piles of weapons: I'm not Theon gods-damned Greyjoy. I'm just not."


	16. Omakes, XXXVII, more Omakes

**XXXVII: Westeros Wedding Crashers, Part 6**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands  
_

The Frey procession approached the Riverrun castle with their band playing as they marched along. Their banners flew proudly in the wind, alongside a few supporting direwolves. No doubt, Robb and the rest of my family were already waiting in their finest, Robb's soon-to-be bride alongside, with Tyrion and his uncle and sellsword also at hand.

I wasn't... But not for lack of trying.

"Come on... Come on...!" I hopped on one foot frantically, trying to pull the boot on. I lost my balance and slammed into the mirror. "URK! Gahhh...!"

There was a knock at the door. "Theon...? Theon, come on!" Catelyn called. "You're going to be late! I can see them from the windows!"

"I'm almost done!" I shouted. I cursed as I got back up, and rubbed my shoulder. "Ow, owww..." I stomped on the floor, and grinned as the boot _finally_ got on. "YES! Finally!"

The mirror I'd slammed into fell over, shattering into several pieces. I sighed, and rubbed my cheeks.

"Damnit..."

Catelyn opened the door, dressed in her finest dress. Embroidered lace lined the hem, as well as her elegant collar. Her hair was in a high bun, making her look a bit like a school marm. The disapproving look she wore completed the picture.

"Theon... What in the name of the Seven are you _wearing?_ And what did you do to your mirror?"

"Uh... Well, these new boots still need to be broken in," I explained, brushing off my jacket. "So I-"

"Broke the mirror with your boots?" Catelyn asked. I shook my head.

"No! No no no, I didn't-!"

"And what is _this_ thing?" She reached up to the red bowtie I wore. "And this jacket... And this shirt, why...?" She shook her head. "You look-"

"It's called a _bowtie,_ and it's _cool._ Bowties are _cool,"_ I insisted. Catelyn sighed and rolled her eyes.

"The Freys are on their way and here you are, dressing like a _clown,"_ she mumbled. She reached up and adjusted the bowtie. "And this is crooked!"

"It's supposed to be crooked," I said. Catelyn scowled, and I sighed. "Oh fine, it isn't..."

"There," Catelyn said. She lowered her hands and looked down. I frowned.

"Lady Catelyn?"

"Sorry... You do look nice," she said softly.

"For a clown, right?" I asked with a smile. She didn't returned it, and I rested my hands on her shoulders. "Mother...?"

Catelyn sighed heavily, her shoulders shaking. "Stannis... After what he did, I... I talked to Luwin. He knows a few... Possibilities, but..." She looked back up at me. "Do you have any options for protecting Robb from that... That _witch...?_ "

I sighed. "I... Well... Maybe...? Magic is not really my domain," I said, "science is. And science and magic... They don't work well together-"

"Please Theon," Catelyn insisted, "please... Promise me you won't let it happen to Robb. _Please."  
_  
I worked my jaw, saw her pleading expression... I knew all the difficulties and problems I would have with her request... And I sighed, and squeezed her hands together comforting.

"I promise, Mother," I said. She smiled, sniffing a bit. She wiped her eyes, and looked aside.

"Thank you, Theon," she said. She looked back. "I know that... It hasn't been easy on any of us... Not you either. Losing... Losing _two_ fathers..."

I held her gaze steadily. I let out a long, sad sigh. "As far as I'm concerned... I only lost one," I said. "But it hurts enough for two."

I gave her a hug impulsively, and she returned it. I stroked her back, and smiled. _My mother...  
_  
There was no other word for her. And if nothing else, I'd win this war and save the world for her... And Robb... And Bran, and Sansa, Arya... Rickon... All of them.

 _All_ of them.

We arrived in the courtyard just soon enough to see the main gate open up, and the Frey procession came in. Their band was playing something archaic and kind of boring... Not to mention kind of playing it badly. Margaery gamely hid her grimaced, and Robb didn't even bother.

Ser Loras, Brienne and Amarda stood with us, and Margary's brother groaned audibly next to me.

"Urgh... Are all Riverlanders tone deaf?" He mumbled.

"No, just polite enough not to point it out," I observed. Loras shook his head.

"My grandmother is going to _love_ this when she gets here," he sighed.

"Relax, Ramsay's band is _much_ better," I said. Loras looked at me, curious.

"Are you sure?"

"Completely," I said with a confident nod.

"I'm _so_ glad to hear you say that, Theon!" Chirped Ramsay, and through long practice I kept myself from jumping. Loras wasn't so lucky, yelping in his armor. He looked at the beaming Bolton bastard in shock, and I gave him a kindly smile.

"Well, it's well deserved," I said. "Everything set up?"

Amarda scowled. "Of course it is. I ensured it."

"Just wanted you to know the music side was all set," Ramsay said with a grin. He tilted his head at me. "What are you _wearing?"  
_  
"It's a bowtie," I said patiently, "they're cool."

"It looks a bit too... Flamboyant, doesn't it?" Asked Loras. I stared at him in disbelief, as did Brienne, Ramsay, Amarda... Even Catelyn and Robb shot him incredulous looks. Margaery just smiled warmly at her brother.

Seriously, did _everybody_ know Loras was gayer than Christmas? I'd known him for about an hour and already I got it. I mean, I didn't judge him harshly for it: He was a damn good warrior and a good brother. But _seriously,_ one of the worst kept secrets _ever._

"This from the Knight of Flowers," I said. Loras smirked, and brushed his hair back.

"When you've got it, _flaunt it,"_ he said.

The Freys finished filing in, parting for a litter. A bannerman stepped in front of it, and cleared his throat. The band stopped playing.

"Announcing, the Lord of the Twins... Walder Frey!" A bannerman called. The litter came down, and a number of bannermen moved in front of the little box. They parted, revealing a wrinkled, sour looking old man in a wheelchair. He was pushed forward by his followers... And his sour expression became a greasy smile.

"The King in the North! Lady Stark, Lady Tyrell... Buncha ladies I don't know," he said as he drew near. "I bring with me, five thousand men, and open use of the Twins!"

"I think he was talking to you," Ramsay murmured to Loras. The Knight of Flowers rolled his eyes.

"Welcome to you, Lord Frey," Robb said tightly, "better _late_ than never."

"Didn't seem like you needed all that much help, lad," Walder snorted. He gazed at Margaery with a bit of a lecherous glint, "and you had _other_ things t' worry about than me, hm?"

"Welcome to Riverrun, my Lord Frey," Margaery managed with a polite smile and curtsy. Even as Robb and Grey Wind growled. The old man nodded.

"Well! Brought with me fresh fish, good ale, and plenty of other goods! All more than enough to make up for bein' _late_ this time," he sneered. "Now! Where is that bloody Squid?! Where is he?"

Robb scowled. "What do you want with my brother, Lord Frey?" He asked. The old man's eyes lit on me, and he grinned broadly.

"AH! Theon the Clever Squid! I wanted to see you! Come up here, lad! Come up!"

I walked up, giving Robb a reassuring smile... And a reassuring pat of my revolver. I walked up to this man, who had slaughtered my family in an alternate timeline.

"What can I do for you, my Lord?" I managed politely. Walder Frey grinned.

"I can thank _you_ for what you've done fer me, lad! Hahahaha!"

I blinked and studied the wheelchair. It was a Stark design, true... "Well, it is a good wheelchair but I-"

"Not the _chair,_ Squid! Those little blue pills!" Walder Frey laughed. "Ahahaha! Thanks to them, I feel _thirty_ years younger!" He reached up and clasped my shoulder. "You boy, are a true genius! Making those... What do you call 'em?"

"Blue pills...?" I thought aloud. A memory came up of the need to do more medical testing over a larger scale, but due to such practices being foreign to a feudal society, I'd had to come up with a method for a control... And I held a laugh in.

"Ah... Placebos, my lord," I said. Walder laughed, slapping me on the shoulder again with surprising strength.

"Whatever the bloody things are, they're amazin'! My new wife can attest to that! Can't you?"

A meek looking girl, heavily pregnant, nodded from the back of the caravan. Walder laughed again.

"Well! Sure ya don't need any of those, Your Grace," he called to Robb, who was staring in a mix of disbelief and amusement, "but I'm sure yer Clever Squid'll think up something if you do! Ahahahahaha! Now then," he turned and glared at his people, "bring in the food! Bring in the gifts! Bring in the bloody entertainment! What are you standin' around fer with yer cocks in yer hands? GO!"

The Freys practically leaped to their duties, pulling in carts of food and bundles of gifts. Frey laughed, and barked more orders.

"See ya at the wedding tonight, Your Grace! Sure it'll be grand!" He laughed, as his helpers pushed him towards the keep. Our group watched him go, as the rest of the Freys shuffled into the castle under the eyes of the rest of the nobles and troops.

"... Is he always like that?" Robb asked his mother. Catelyn sighed.

"He's in a much better mood than last I saw him," she said, looking at me. I shrugged.

"Got me," I said.

"Excuse me," a voice spoke from the entrance. We turned again, Grey Wind whining. A few figures in all concealing robes approached, and a few of our guards aimed their weapons at them. Robb held up his hand, and gave them a steely glare.

"Who goes there?" He demanded. The lead figure tilted his head.

"Are you... King Robb Stark? King in the North? Slayer of the Mountain who Rides?" The figure called in a raspy, disguised voice. Robb frowned, hands resting on his guns.

"I am... And you?"

The figure threw his robe off... Revealing a dark skinned, handsome man in dark red and gold clothing. He flashed bright white teeth, and practically _sprinted_ the distance between them... To take Robb into a manly bear hug.

"Ahahaha! Oberyn Martell! And I, I am your new best friend!" He cried, before planting an open mouth kiss on my shocked king and brother from another mother's mouth. Catelyn and Amarda gasped, Brienne and Margaery flushed. Ramsay laughed, as did Loras. Oberyn let Robb go, and hugged him again.

"Ahahaha! Thank you! You, my liege, my king, my friend!" He laughed. "I come from Dorne! With my paramour, my niece, and whoever the hell I need to sign an alliance!" He grinned. "We're going to tear those fucking lions apart, my friend! AHAHAHAHAHA!"

"Ah... Yes... Welcome, Lord Oberyn," Robb managed. The rest of his party had removed their cloaks, revealing Dornish men and women in garish outfits. Two women, one older and wild looking, the other short, buxom and with smoky eyes, approached. The older woman hugged and kissed Robb with similar enthusiasm, while Oberyn took Margaery's hand and kissed her knuckles.

"Such an honor to meet you all, at last. Such a wonderful day for a wedding!" Oberyn cried cheerfully. He locked eyes on me, and brightened even more. "THEON! My friend, the Squid-!"

"Kiss me and I'll break your arms," I said flatly. Oberyn laughed, but gave me a hug all the same.

"You haven't changed a bit!"

"Shame," Ramsay muttered to Loras. I sighed, and my head dropped.

Well... Better a Wedding of Embarrassment than a Red One, right...?

 **Omake – A Girls best friends**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, Five Days Before the Royal Wedding_

Brienne of Tarth ran the rag up and down the steel of her sword as she absently looked out the window of her quarters. Set in one of the upper levels of Riverrun, it offered a fine view of the river below, bustling with river traffic going back and forth, carrying men, supplies, weapons, trade goods and horses. Riverrun was in the odd position of being a staging point for both an army preparing for a massive offensive, and the royal wedding of it's new king.

Actually, despite the volume of traffic, it was also remarkably orderly. Lord Theon had mentioned in passing the day before that this was partly because he had put things in motion months before, on the assumption that Robb would wind up marrying someone, and it was better to have things organized early rather than trying to throw something together at the last moment. " _Prior planning prevents piss poor performance,_ " he had joked, and while her generally stoic demeanor prevented her from laughing at the crude joke, inside she smiled slightly. He was witty in a self-deprecating sort of way, nothing like the dignified, mysterious, maester-like image she had built up from hearing of his genius and inventions.

A knock on her door brought her attention back from the scene outside, and she rose to her feet, tossing the rag aside and readying her blade. "Who is it?" she called.

"Theon Greyjoy," came the muffled response through her door. "I was hoping to have a moment of your time?"

She hesitated, then lowered her sword and crossed the small room, opening the door to see the young Ironborn lord standing there, carrying a small, flat wooden box. "Forgive me, I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said courteously, not looking askance at the sword in her hand, like many other lords would have. _Then again, I've seen other Northern ladies like Dacey Mormont and the Manderly girls walking around with weapons of their own, even if the latter seemed to prefer their hand thunderers, their 'revolvers' more than blades_.

"Not at all," she said stiffly. "How can I help you?"

He smiled. "May I come in? I have a gift for you: a kind of thank you for helping protect Lady Catelyn while she was in the South."

"I was simply doing my duty," she said, inwardly observing that somehow, the inhabitants of Riverrun (and the entire Riverlands) seemed to be adopting the idea that they were somehow Northerners themselves: that the term ' _southerner_ ' was becoming less of a geographical descriptor and more of a word for ' _foreigner_ ', or ' _outsider_ '.

"Still," he countered, "The lady means a great deal to me, so with your permission?" he nodded at the room behind her, and after a moment's hesitation, allowed him to enter.

As she shut the door, she turned to see him looking around the room, taking in the bed, small table, chair and chest of clothes, as well as the rack that held her armour. "Forgive me, Lord Theon, but I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of comforts. Room in the fortress is rather limited, and I was grateful that Lord Edmure was able to find these quarters for me."

"Actually, I was just thinking they were very similar to the quarters I have up in Winterfell," he observed with another smile, and Brienne ruthlessly stomped down on the part of her that observed that it was a very attractive smile. "In any case," he gently placed the box down on her table, "These are for you." He stepped back and gestured for her to open it.

Frowning, she moved over to the table, and reached for the box. She wondered inwardly what was inside: was it jewelry, some kind of bizarre joke-gift? She knew from long experience that no amount of finery could make her look less like a draft horse. What kind of gift would a Northerner, or Ironborn, consider appropriate for -

She lifted the lid, and gasped. Inside were a pair of large revolvers, one facing left, the other upside down and facing right, on a bed of red velvet. Also within were several rows of tiny, shiny brass cylinders. The metal was unadorned, but highly polished, and the wooden butts scored in a checker pattern for a better grip.

Pistols were becoming more and more common amongst Northern soldiery, and even in the South, but most were simple one-or-two barrelled muzzle-loaders, and mostly flintlocks. She had never bothered with them, due to the sword being at least as effective, and the cost of finding ammunition south of the Trident. Revolvers, however, were still extremely new, and only owned by the most wealthy, powerful and connected lords and ladies of the North, or their immediate servants, like Mistress Honn.

"These are modified and customised Snowstorm revolvers, chambered for .45 inch rounds, but with a larger powder charge than most. The frame is heavier, and I'm afraid it's still a single-action: you'll have to thumb back the hammer after each shot. Still, each one holds six bullets you can use as fast as you can work the action, and reloading is fast and simple."

She hesitantly reached down and ran a hand over the grips. "Perhaps you remember when Maester Luwin measured your hands and fingers while on board the Seawolf?" The Greyjoy continued. "Well, he sent the figures up to us via raven, and I modified the grips so that they should match your hands perfectly."

She looked up at him. "This is … a princely gift, Lord Theon. I cannot accept -"

He raised a hand to cut her off. "You are in the service of the man who is more my brother than the dumbasses who died trying to carry out my biological dad's insane, stupid plans. You should have the best... "

Brienne nodded. "I understand, Lord Theon… But…" She glanced at her blade. "I am afraid I am somewhat unfamiliar with such weapons. I have trained all my life to use the sword, but these ..."

"We can fix that!" Theon said brightly. Brienne frowned, and nodded.

"As you wish, my Lord."

"Indeed… Follow me!" Theon said cheerfully.

The heavy revolver felt somewhat awkward in her hand as Brienne raised it to point at the target set up on the other side of the courtyard.

"Hold on," said Theon, and she froze: one of the first things he had done was to drill into her the vital importance of remembering just how dangerous these weapons could be: he used the metaphor of juggling bottles of wildfire above a bonfire. So when he said stop, she stopped.

The lord stepped behind her and gently lay his hands on her shoulders. At first she flinched at the contact, but then her mind went back to the days when her father and his armsmen were teaching her how to wield a sword, and the clinical ways they would correct her stance of grip. Theon shifted the angle of her body, then corrected her stance. "Right. Now, your right hand is good, but place your left hand below it … yes, that's right. Now, straighten your arm …" He stood behind her and reached around, and taking her wrists and correcting how she held her arms. It was at once distant and strangely intimate, and that one part of her mind, that traitorous piece from earlier, was making a pest of itself again.

 _Shut up: he's a powerful, important young lord, foster-brother to a king. He's not going to look at me like that: he's just helping a guardswoman master a new weapon._

"Alright, remember that the barrel of the gun provides the trajectory of the bullet: where the barrel points, that's where the bullet will go. But since the bullet drops over distance, you use the sights to aim slightly above what you're trying to hit. The further away it is, the higher you aim." He stepped back slightly, but placed his hands on her shoulders. "Alright, I want you to keep it there, but squeeze back gently on the trigger, like …" he froze. "Um, carefully. Gently." Brienne had the strangest impression that he was going to compare the action to something, but stopped at the last moment. Shrugging mentally, she did as he said, squeezed back, felt the trigger resist, then …

BANG!

The shock of the recoil ran up her arm, and she was glad that Theon still had a good grip on her shoulders. The smell of brimstone filled the air, as did a thick grey cloud of smoke, and she fought to control the revolver. "Sorry," she muttered as she forced the gun back on target, her left hand shaking as she reached up to pull the hammer back, forcing the cylinder to revolve, presenting the next cartridge.

"Perfectly alright: you're doing amazingly well for a first timer. You're supposed to be surprised when the gun goes off: helps the targeting. Alright, let's try it again … hands in position … aim … take a breath … hold it in, and … squeeze …."

BANG!

"Hammer."  
Ka-click.  
BANG!

"Hammer."  
Ka-click.  
BANG!

"Hammer."  
Ka-click.  
"Squeeze!"  
BANG!

"Hammer!"  
Ka-click."  
"Squeeze!"  
BANG!

"Hammer!"  
Ka-click."  
"Squeeze!"

She squeezed down on the trigger again, but instead of the roar of the revolver firing, there was an ominous 'snap' sound.

"And you're dry," Theon said, a smile in his voice. "Remember: even a revolver like this only has six rounds: after that, you switch to another gun, or drop them and draw steel."

Shakily lowering the revolver to the table in front of her, she swallowed, her mouth surprisingly dry. "So," she coughed, "So it's not a complete replacement for the sword after all," she said with a hint of triumph.

"Not at all," he said. "It's just a weapon. After all," and here he smiled, flicking the side of his nose in an odd gesture, "it is men who win wars, not steel… And women too. If our weapons could do all the fighting for us, what use would there be for us?"

Brienne nodded, a bit pleased. Despite the terrible, destructive weapons he crafted, weapons that could be learned far more easily than the sword or the lance, Theon the Clever seemed to recognise that there was still value in the valor, courage and discipline of a trained warrior. There were some stories, told around tavern tables or campfires, that suggested otherwise.

"You see, my lady? In order to find Theon, all one has to do is follow the sound of explosions," came a familiar voice, and Brienne jerked away from Theon's arms, to find herself facing her new employer and his fiance.

"Your Grace," she dipped into a bow.

"Please, Lady Brienne, there is no need for formality: if you are supposed to be guarding my back, I can't have you spending all your time bowing. You'll be forever running into things," Robb joked, and Margaery tittered slightly behind a gloved hand. Brienne straightened up, her face composed.

"Very well, Your Grace." She nodded slightly to Theon, who waved cheerfully. "Lord Theon was just giving me a lesson in these new weapons."

"Ah, I recall those extremely well," Robb said, approaching with Margaery still on his arm, looking at the firing bench and her new revolvers. "Did he happen to spend ten minutes repeating over and over that 'a gun is not a toy, never, ever point it at someone you don't want dead, and a gun is never unloaded?'"

"Actually, she's an extremely bright student, unlike some I would mention," corrected Theon. "I only needed to tell her that once. And she's certainly not likely to try spinning her revolvers around her fingers like some people I know," he said archly, to which Robb raised his eyebrows in an innocent expression.

"Teacher sets the example," he said. Theon rolled his eyes.

"In any case, it's wonderful timing that you're here, my lady," continued Theon, in an effort to change the subject completely to avoid being further embarrassed by his liege, snapping his fingers for a nearby page, who rushed to collect a box that lay nearby. Crafted from polished, varnished ironwood, it was ornately carved with roses and vines, and the catch was a golden flower. Holding the box, the young boy's hands shook slightly, as he glanced up at the girl who would soon be his queen. She smiled gently back, and he blushed furiously. Ignoring this, Theon gestured for her to open the box, his eyes glimmering in his own excitement. With slight caution that was vastly outweighed by her curiosity, Margaery undid the catch and opened the box.

Inside was a beautifully crafted revolver, smaller and more delicate than those worn by Robb or the one Brienne had been firing, with a shorter barrel. The steel frame was plated with silver, and delicately carved with flowers to match the box it came in. Even the grips were ivory, and carved with vines and thorns. Her sharp eyes picked out a tiny wolf's head, almost entirely obscured by the vegetation surrounding it, but she could see the exquisite workmanship of the little loupine's features.

"It's rather smaller than the thumb-busters we issue our knights and cavalry," said Theon, his pride in his work evident, "But it's still .40 calibre - I'm not going to start making rounds that annoy the enemy rather than killing them. And I'm afraid there are only five shots, since I wanted to make it light enough for you to use, and less bulky to carry. The grips should fit your hands perfectly, but I would like to see you use it a little, in case I have to add a little weight to the barrel, or shave off some from the grip." He grinned. "It was Robb's idea, but I enjoyed the project."

She sighed. "It's beautiful," she said, smiling at Theon, then up at Robb, "But should I really be carrying a revolver? After all, I have all you big, strong men to protect me, and anyone who got past your own thunderers would have to deal with Brienne's blade." She looked back down at the gun. "I've never trained at arms, and I honestly don't know if I could bear to use one."

"Margaery," Robb said quietly, "If there is one thing this war has taught me, it is that we cannot simply assume that the worst will not happen. Theon, what was that Qarthan philosopher you quote all the time?"

The Greyjoy smiled. "Murfi: 'Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, at the most inopportune moment.' A wise man, who's genius was not recognised in his own time."

"That's the one. My lady, we will do all that we can to protect you, but even with the entire Royal Guard to defend us, there is no way we can guarantee that no one will ever get within striking distance." The North had dismissed the whole Kingsguard issue as typical Southern frippery: seven knights to defend the entire royal family? Nonsense: a full company was what was needed, hard men trained hard, and many eyes to watch for trouble. "You having this, and being trained to use it, would make me - and a lot of other people - breath a little easier."

"Of course, there's the added bonus of the fact that in the North, a good gun is a status symbol," added Theon. "I mean, I hate the idea of trivialising the danger and power of these weapons-"

"Boom, boom, heheheh," Robb murmured, and Theon granted him only a glare before continuing.

"-But a revolver is a statement of power, influence and wealth. It says, 'I take responsibility. I have the will to take life and death into my own hands. I am not afraid, because I am myself a protector. And badass.'"

Margaery was about to ask what "badass" meant but Brienne interjected.

"And if seeing the Queen in the North and the Trident carrying one, you will get a lot of orders for more pretty weapons from ladies of all stations, wanting to emulate the queen," observed Brienne.

"Well, of course, of course" responded Theon, waving away her cynicism. "Nothing wrong with a little advertising … and they may be pretty, but they're still damned good guns," he added with a fierce grin. "I do have my reputation to think of …"

"In any case," continued Robb, sighing at his foster brother's antics, "It would place my mind at ease, in these lands of assassins and betrayal, that you have a means, and the skill, to defend yourself if all else fails. Please, my lady, grant me this."

Still Margaery hesitated. "I am not nearly the natural warrior Brienne is: do you truly believe I could learn this skill?"

Theon smiled. "I taught Robb's mother and both his sisters how to handle guns safely. Sansa wasn't all that enthusiastic: the powder residue got into her clothes and hair, and she hated the smell of sulphur. Big baby," he muttered. He shook his head and continued:

"But Arya loved them: I was hoping to present her with a gun of her own when she returned from King's Landing, a companion to that Bravosi-style blade Jon gave her before she left ... " his expression turned sad, and Robb's hand came down on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. "It's waiting for her in Winterfell," he said firmly, "in her room with the rest of her things. As soon as this is over, I'll have to see if her skills have atrophied."

"So you see," wheedled Robb, noticing his foster brother's dark mood and trying to bring him up "It's a family tradition, one I'm hopeful you will share."

She laughed, and the mood in the courtyard lightened. "You have no intention of letting this go, do you, Your Grace?"

"None at all," stated the Wolf King, lifting his chin into a mock noble expression, "We Starks are amongst the most stubborn, contrary and inflexible of all the great Houses. Once we set our minds to something, not even the harshest winter wind can divert us from our goal."

"You can quote him on that. Or at least the _Despoiler_ will," Theon said. Robb rolled his eyes.

"Don't drag the free press into this again?"

"You're just sore I won the last time," Theon said, sticking his tongue out.

"It doesn't matter who wins… But if it did, then I did. Last time," Robb said defiantly.

Margaery let out a surprisingly loud giggle. "Why, then," she said, again reaching for the box and it's beautiful, if lethal, contents, "I suppose there is nothing to do but bend with the wind … After all," she curled her fingers around the grip of the revolver, and gently lifted it up, feeling the weight in her hand, "Perhaps a rose _should_ have a few thorns …"

"Ooh! That's a good quote!" Theon said with a nod. "Oberyn could use that for the photoshoot for the _Gentleser's Quarterly_."

"Photoshoot?" Robb asked in alarm. " _What_ photoshoot?"

"It's for the wedding! What did you think I meant?" Theon asked with a smile. "It's too cold for Oberyn's usual kinds of photoshoots."

"What kind of photoshoots are you talking about?" Margaery asked, interested.

Robb was suddenly very interested in the architecture of the upper level balconies, rubbing at the back of his head. "Um, well, you see …"

"It's the kind of thing Robb _obviously_ has no interest in," Theon said with a cunning smile. "But if he did, you might benefit immensely from it-"

"Greyjoy! That's my fiance you're talking to!" the Young Wolf thundered.

"I'm just trying to _help_ , Your Grace!" Theon complained, attempting to look innocent. "I should help my king succeed in _all_ things!"

"You're not helping _anything_!"

Brienne stepped back, and made a show of examining the mechanism of her revolver, fully intending to not get involved …

Margaery smiled sweetly. "Oh, is this something to do with sex? I was told you Northerners are … a little repressed regarding this … can I offer some suggestions? After all, you're not going to insist on doing all the work yourself, will you? Your Grace?"

Robb and Theon were left gobsmacked. Brienne covered her face with her hand.

She wondered if it was, perhaps, too late to go back to the Storm's End dungeons…

 _ **Omake: Mockingbird's Machinations**_

 **PETYR BAELISH**  
 _AC 300, Red Keep, Two Weeks before the Wedding_

Once again he awoke to an empty bed of the finest make a successful man can commission from Lys, turning his head to the empty space next to him where a woman with the most beautiful auburn hair and glittering blue eyes that was always full of mirth should have been.

Once again, he cursed the late Brandon Stark under his breath.

Once again, he whispered the name of his once lover as if he was in prayer.

"Cat…"

Petyr Baelish arose from slumber and began his morning ritual. He made way his way to the water basin where he stared at himself in the reflection. His green-gray eyes bore at him with contempt as he took note of the bags that were beginning to form underneath them. A scowl had replaced the façade of a smile he kept on at all times. That would not do.

Smile.

Cat leaned back after finishing their little kissing game, her hand taking his as she makes him promise that they will marry once she is a woman grown.

Smile!

He stood triumphant over the slain Brandon Stark, Cat rushing to embrace him to deliver her thanks for saving a life as a broodmare for that Northern barbarian.

SMILE!

Eddard Stark's head rolled away from his body, reminding him that, soon, very soon, everything he deserved would be in his hands as the rest of the realm burned around him.

Petyr smiled.

It would not take him long before he dressed and left his living quarters. The office of Master of Coin was nothing extravagant, perhaps to emphasize to those that hold that position to be frugal, but it sufficed. It was not as though Petyr ever received anyone of high standing within its walls. Oh no, if anyone had problems, they took it to the Hand. Was it no wonder he was able to get away with so much? For all the blustering many lords did, they never seemed to question where their money went to or where they came from.

He opened his drawer, revealing the latest procurement his agents had sent him. Petyr was surprised that they were able to swipe a 'revolver.' The North guarded their secrets jealously, but he supposed dead men guarded nothing. His thumb traced the designs etched onto its frame, admiring the craftsmanship of the device. However, it was not its aesthetics that fascinated him. Though it weighed much less than a sword, he could not help but feel every part of it as he picked it up.

Petyr could feel it. Unlike a sword, thunderarms carried with them the weight of death. He was drawn to it, to its power. With a small, simple weapon like a revolver, he can make a warrior trained from birth plead for his life in mere seconds. It was the great equalizer he had longed hoped for. These were the weapons he needed to have Cat.

He could imagine it. Petyr could see what everything would have been like if he had this weapon fifteen years ago.

Brandon Stark drew his sword, his long face solemn, but his eyes full of fury. He wore nothing but his leathers, underestimating the short, clever boy he had been. Stark would be in a stance as he approached, no doubt growing impatient and infuriated as he remained standing where he was with a confident smirk playing on his lips. Heated, Stark would charge forward, but he was too big, too heavy, and much too slow to be a match for him. As Stark shortened the distance, he would draw his revolver from its pocket wrapped around his waist. The metal hammer at its back would click with a swipe from his thumb. Once the barrel was leveled along his waist, he took aim at the advancing wolf. He squeezed the trigger. Thunder roared from his weapon and Stark fell, his face planting right in front of his feet as if to kiss it. Brandon Stark was slain and he won Cat's hand.

Petyr knew he was a fool when he had been young. He wasted his days believing in song. He would give that accursed Theon Greyjoy some credit. He was a hostage, but he turned it around and made it to his advantage. He took the resources of his host to be his for his disposable. No doubt there had been many failures in the early stages of his crafting. Theon Greyjoy was a genius, but Petyr knew that he himself was even more than that squid could ever be. He should have been the one to have created those thunderarms. It was so simple, after all.

He took the revolver and kept it hidden on his person. It was a tumultuous time to be in King's Landing, and, sooner or later, King Joffrey would be ousted from his throne to make way for the Young Wolf. Petyr thought Lord Tywin was rather pathetic for believing he could turn his predicament around. He thought him better than that, but even the so-called Lion King of Casterly Rock was just as blind as the other nobles. The war would end once King Robb's wedding does.

No, it's still much too early for this game to finish, he thought. There were still plenty of opportunities to sow chaos, more moments to seize and grab power.

As plans raced in his mind, Petyr caught sight of the king pacing back and forth in front of the small council's chambers, a Kingsguard idly watched him nearby. Lord Tywin must have barred him from the small council meeting, Petyr thought. Well, it was a good decision. He would not fault Lord Tywin for it. It amused him to no end that the Lord of Casterly Rock so easily cowed the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Good morning, Your Grace," Petyr greeted, more out of courtesy than actual interest.

"The Mockingbird…" Joffrey said, scowling. Then, as if some clever thought struck him, he quickly reversed his words. "No, Lord Baelish. As king, I've need of your assistance." He smirked proudly.

He wished he could scoff at such a blatant display to curry favor. Nevertheless, he answered, "I am always at your disposable, Your Grace."

Joffrey nodded, pleased. "Grandfather has told me gold also has power. I am the king and that alone gives me all the power I need, but, nevertheless, gold would make me even more powerful."

Get to the point of your rambling, Petyr thought. "Aye, your lord grandfather is a wise man, Your Grace. I have no doubt that you have come up with something brilliant."

"Yes! Exactly! I told my plans to grandfather, but he's not as wise as people think he is. He thinks it's needless!"

He smiled kindly. The boy made it too easy. "You are the king, Your Grace. Lord Tywin may be wise, but, as king, are you not wiser? Please, allow me to assist you. Perhaps I can help sort out the details."

Naturally, Joffrey appeared proud and motioned for Petyr to follow him. Petyr cast one last look on the doors to the small council's chambers and decided he could afford to be a little late. It was not like he would miss much anyway. There was no better excuse than to say that Joffrey ordered him to attend the king.

"Mother told me to find enemies of those barbarians, and then I remembered something about the Freys…"

Oh, this would do _very_ nicely, Petyr thought.

Once again, Petyr Baelish schemed.


	17. XXXVIII, XXXIX, Omake

**XXXVIII: Meanwhile, in Slaver's Bay... Part 2**

 _AC 300, Mereen, Essos  
_  
 **Daenerys**

Another meeting with the Masters of the City had been fruitless. They didn't want to deal, even with her. And having to tolerate every _single one_ of that arrogant bastard's insults...!

Daenerys calmed herself, and took deep breaths. The sounds of the street and the smells helped calm her a bit-Fish cooking with vegetables, exotic spices wafting over the docks, a few children laughing...It was such a rare sound here.

"Take heart, Khaleesi," Ser Jorah said, "the negotiations for the Unsullied, especially so many... Were never going to be easy."

"I know," Daenerys said with a sigh. "Having to put up with such things... I can bear it."

Ser Barristan, walking alongside, nodded. "It is good to hear, Your Grace. Thick skin will do you well, in all your endeavors."

Daenerys smiled as they headed for the shop that usually carried newspapers from Westeros. Her knights followed, keeping pace perfectly. The crowds parted slightly, giving her way. That encouraged her a bit-That she was becoming known as someone due respect, not just curiosity or pity.

The shop was musty, filled with books and scrolls. It was a pleasing scent to Daenerys, and the proprietor was an exiled bastard from the Riverlands, a Yuy Rivers. He beamed brightly at her, and bowed.

"Ah, Khaleesi! A pleasure to see you again!" Yuy exclaimed. "Come for another magazine? Fresh shipment just came in-Pirates off Pentos seized a Northern schooner." He made a face. "Then the North Navy sank all but one of their ships! But one got through and sold me this at a nice price!" He held up several Dorne magazines, and technical journals. Daenerys shook her head and looked through the papers.

"Any more of the _Despoiler?"_ She asked. Yuy sighed and shrugged.

"Sorry Khaleesi. Nothin' doin'. Apparently my usual supplier-Those Lannister cunts seized 'em!" He shook his head. "Not sure what they have against news-Guess it's all bad."

"For them," Jorah said, as Barristan nodded in agreement. That these men could still hold such loyalty to the homes that rejected them...

"I see," Daenerys said with a sigh. "What do you have?"

Yuy rummaged around in a stack, which tilted over. "I have-AUGH!" He scrambled to catch his books, and Jorah, Daenerys and Selmy moved to try to catch the pile. They pushed the books back, though a few fell out into their hands. Daenerys handed back books, looking at them. Mostly Braavosi in some obscure languages and... She paused as she saw the author on one of them.

"'Theon Greyjoy'?" Daenerys read aloud. Yuy looked at that book, and snorted.

"Bah! Crank filler, that. Claims it's Theon Greyjoy, but how can ya tell with all the fakes going around?"

Daenerys read the title, and then flipped through the pages. She recognized the idioms, the style from her reading of Theon Greyjoy's various newspaper articles. It was easy to pick up his speech patterns, his odd turns of phrase... _Many_ odd turns of phrase...

"Anyway, you wouldn't want _that,"_ Yuy huffed. "That's worthless. Now, how about a copy of _The Torch Burns Brightly?_ Wonderful series. New writer in Maidenpool, lovely series of-"

"Ah... You know," Daenerys said, "if it is worthless, I could just take it off your hands." She smiled at him. "Please? I'll take that book..."

Yuy shrugged. "As you wish, Khaleesi."

A few coins, and Daenerys had her new books. They retired to her quarters overlooking the streets, and Daenerys went down to the courtyard. Her dragons were sunning themselves in the warmth of the afternoon. Daenerys looked to the book, and sat with her dragons. She stroked Drogon's crested head, and the dragon purred happily. She opened the book.

" _How to Train your Dragon or Dinosaur,"_ she read softly.

 _Some weeks later... Outside the city walls...  
_

"Khaleesi," Jorah said, looking concerned, "are you sure you want to do this?"

"You've asked me that several times, Ser Jorah," Daenerys said. She looked to her brood, six eyes staring intently. She held up a metallic clicker-Two pieces of metal held together with a spring to hold them against each other. "The answer is the same..."

She clicked the device several times, and her dragons looked at her. Viserion idly looked over at one of Daenery's bloodriders, but Daenerys narrowed her eyes.

"Hey! Viserion! Eyes on me!" She barked. Viserion growled at her. "No! Don't you give me that bullshit, Viserion! Eyes on me!"

Viserion cooperated, and Daenerys moved to the right. Her dragons follow her moves. She moved to the left, and they all watched. "Good, good..." She kept her eyes on her dragons. "Ser Barristan! Release the pig!"

The old knight gamely let the pig go, running and squealing. The dragons turned, watched, snarled...

"HEY! HEY! Eyes! On! Me! Drogon! Viserion! Rhaegal! Eyes! On! Me!" Daenerys shouted, clicking rapidly. The dragons whined, but looked at her. She smiled. "Good! Good..." Daenerys reached into her bucket of meat. She pulled out a piece, and tossed it to Drogon. He snapped it up in mid air. She tossed another to Rhaegal, and the final cut to Viserion. The dragons swallowed it, and Daenerys nodded.

"Good... Good... Now..." She clicked more, and the dragons flared their wings. "Now... Up!"

They stood up, flaring their wings.

"Down!"

They crouched. Daenerys smiled and nodded, as her bloodrider Kovarro caught the pig. He looked to his Khaleesi, and she nodded. He came around, and handed Daenerys the squealing piglet. She then looked back to her dragons.

"Eyes on me... Yes... And..." She threw the piglet up. "DRACARYS!"

The dragons shot jets of flame into the air, and the squealing piglet was reduced to a smoking pile of flesh. The dragons still tore into it, and swallowed the meat. Daenerys sighed, and lowered her arms.

"All right... Now... Rest!" She ordered. They lumbered over to a pile of rocks they'd taken to resting on as they'd grown, and settled down. Daenerys sighed, and rubbed her forehead free of sweat. Ser Barristan beamed at her, as did Jorah. Her Dothraki applauded and whooped.

"Very impressive, Khaleesi," Barristan said, "they are properly trained!"

Daenerys looked over at her dragons, and sighed. "No... Not yet..." She steeled her shoulders. "But I'll make them so."

And maybe one day, she'd find and thank Theon Greyjoy for all his work... And maybe explain why the instructor he had cited was called "Chris Pratt" on a few pages and "Starlord" on others...

 **Omake - The Man who did sell the Lion's Skin Part 3**

 _AC 300, Kings Landing_

Lord Tywin Lannister stormed into the courtyard of the Red Keep, his redcloaked guards shuffling as fast as their armour would let them to catch up. Having a slightly easier time was the senior Unsullied, dressed in leather, a short sword on one hip and carrying his spiked steel cap under his arm. "I hope you actually have something useful today, Pycelle," Tywin growled, and the robed and bearded grandmaester bowed.

"Indeed, my lord Hand, your servants ... that is to say, the servants of the Realm ... have been hard at work producing the weapons needed to confront the rebels on the field of battle. My lord will be pleased to know that almost five hundred weapons have been gathered from the various lords of the Westerlands and the Crownlands, as well as from some ... other sources."

"Five hundred are a pittance," stated the Hand, fingering the hilt of his dagger. "The Northerners have thousands of these 'muskets'."

"Indeed, my lord, indeed. Most, however, are in the hands of their smallfolk, unused to the line of battle, and who instead use them to strike out at our patrols from hiding, then running before our troops can strike back ... we will be issuing them to our front line troops, to stand with out ... foreign volunteers," stammered Pycelle, glancing at the eunuch soldier, who ignored him, paying attention only to Tywin, who's belt held the whip that was the symbol of his mastery and ownership of the Unsullied troops. "Brought together, trained to fire as one, in massive ... volleys, like a force of archers who loose their arrows together, rather than individually."

Tywin nodded, familiar at least with that: massed archers could wreak havoc on an enemy formation outside the normal aimed range of their bows. "Have you solved the issue of their accuracy?"

Pycelle gestured for one of his companions to step forward. "This is Master Kurk, a blacksmith and engineer who has served the Lannister family all his life." The bearded, aproned craftsman bowed low. "He has been assisting my efforts in duplicating and reproducing the enemy weapons."

"My lord Hand," said the commoner respectfully, showing slightly more education than the normal smallfolk, suggesting a familiarity with the nobility, "The rebel forces seem to have a number of advantages over our own. Firstly, their weapons are more accurate. Second, which is related to the first, they have a greater range. And thirdly, they can be reloaded much faster than our muskets."

"These are problems. Give me solutions."

"Yes, my lord." He gestured for a servant to bring a musket. "This is one of the few enemy muskets we have captured. I have spent the last weeks examining this and the other captured weapons, and I am amazed by the quality of the workmanship: I have never seen anything this precise outside of some examples of Qohor metalwork. The barrel is perfectly round, perfectly straight, with almost no imperfections."

"This is difficult to do," observed Tywin. "It must take a good deal of time and effort."

"Precisely, my lord, but also note the lack of decoration, so common with our own muskets. To spend so much time simply making the barrel perfect, while ignoring the rest of it ... I believe that it is the shape of the barrel that allows the Northern muskets to be so much more accurate than our own: like the straightness of an arrow, it helps the ball fly straight and true."

"This seems ... reasonable," admitted Tywin, who only had a cursory understanding of the thunderarms. This annoyed him, and he resolved to learn more. "You said the second issue was related."

"Yes, my lord. We have tested these weapons, and we have found that what we perceive as a lack of range is more connected to accuracy: we have found balls that fly well past the target, but off at a great tangent. It is like," he groped for an example, "A powerful catapault, that shifts randomly when it looses it's stone: it doesn't matter how far it throws the payload, if it misses the target. The Northern muskets are more accurate, and so a soldier can be certain of hitting their target from a greater distance, effectively improving their range."

"I see," observed Tywin. "And the third problem? The speed of 'reloading'?"

"Of course, my lord Hand," Kurk nodded. He placed the musket at his feet. "You are familiar with the method of loading, yes? A measure of powder is poured down the barrel," he mimed the actions, "followed by a lead ball, and a wad of cloth or paper to hold it in place. The ramrod," he pulled out the metal rod from beneath the barrel, "Is used to press the ball and wad down, against the powder." he slid the rod back into place. "The musket is then raised, and a charge of powder is place here, in the pan," he indicated the breech of the barrel, "And the hammer, with it's flint, is pulled back. The butt of the musket is placed firmly against the shoulder," he did so, "and the trigger is pulled," he followed suit, and the hammer fell, striking sparks that made the assembled folk jump. "As you can see, it takes some time, is a complicated process, and needs a great deal of practice.

"Fortunately, when we captured the enemy muskets, we also, in one case, captured the enemy's gear as well," he continued. "Mostly, our soldiers simply grab the musket and leave the rest, but this one soldier thought to take the fallen musketeer's pack and the leather box on his hip that carried his ammunition." Kurk held out a small cylinder. "This is what we're calling a 'package'. Within this paper wrap is a measure of powder and a ball. By ripping off the top with his teeth, and taking the ball into his mouth, the musketeer can then pour the powder into the barrel, keeping the ball in his mouth. He then spits the ball into the barrel, and presses the rest of the package down after it, ramming as usual. Then," he lifted the musket as before, "He turns the musket on it's side, and gives it a sharp rap with the heel of his palm," he does so. "The touch hole, you see, is conical: by shaking the musket in this way, it fills the pan with enough powder to ignite the charge. Very clever of them," he shook his head in admiration. "Whatever else, the North have some excellent engineers. In any case," he continued, "This cuts down the time of reloading to perhaps twenty seconds, perhaps less between shots."

Tywin nodded. "An improvement, although it seems a great deal of effort to go to for such a small advantage," he added. "Paper is not cheap."

"I hear the Northerners have faster and cheaper ways of producing it, but my medium is metal, not paper," shrugged Kurk. "Still, with your permission, we can have our men start gathering up all the paper we can find in the capital."

"Very well: do so. I'm sure the Grandmaester here will be happy to contribute from his own library: take all the paper you need." Pycelle spluttered in indignation, but was quelled by an iron glare. "So, speed is solved: what of the other issues?"

Kurk winced. "I'm sorry, my lord, but there is nothing I can do to match the enemy's metalwork: not and produce a significant number of muskets in a reasonable amount of time. Producing barrels with such accuracy and precision ... it would take a great deal of time for each, requiring a master craftsman. It would be slow, and hugely expensive: no, my lord, we cannot match their thunderers in range or accuracy, unless you wish to field only a fifth of the barrels you wish for, for twice the price.

"I have shops opening in the city, with metalworkers pressed into service, many of whom previously served your son in the lead-up to the Battle of the Blackwater: they are used to his expectations, of speed, efficiency and precision above prettiness. To keep things as simple as possible, we are also having them produce the same design," he handed his Northern musket for a heftier, cruder version. "Each of the shops has one, and will be using it as a model to produce their own from. Any deviation from the template will be severely punished." Shouldering the musket, he showed it to Tywin. "It has a barrel diameter of three quarters of an inch, firing a heavy ball. We cannot match their range and accuracy, but anyone hit with one of these will be lucky to escape with a lot limb: tests against condemned prisoners show that the balls will shatter bones even if they strike the limbs.

"We cannot produce the springs needed for the 'flintlock', so we are going with a 'rope-lock', using this treated cord that burns slowly. It is awkward, and more difficult to use in the wet, rain or wind, but it works." He winced. "Most of the time. There have been some cases of barrels exploding, and muskets going off prematurely, but in general, it works." He turned to the Unsullied. "We were planning on combining our musketeers with your spearmen: within two months, we hope to have five hundred muskets to match the five hundred we already have, for a full thousand."

The slave ignored him, but at Tywin's gesture, he spoke in heavily accented Westerosi. "We not need weapons of thunder. We know the sword, and the three spears. We are Unsullied. But if the Master orders that we protect your fire soldiers, we will."

"Good," said Tywin, ignoring the discomfort the others were showing at the slave's presence. "With the volunteers discipline combined with these weapons, we will have a force the Starks will not be expecting. I _had_ hoped for more muskets," he added, glaring at Kurk. "Is there any way to improve production? More money, perhaps?" he asked with an arch look.

Kurk shook his head. "My lord, you could offer me all the gold 'neath Casterly Rock, and my men could not make these weapons faster. We are still learning things that the Northerners have mastered a decade ago. We see what they have done, and are still trying to work out how they did it ... or at least, how they could do it cheaply and fast enough for it to matter. We are improving, but beyond a sudden, miraculous breakthrough, my estimates are sound. We are somewhat more lucky in the case of the big guns," he added, smiling a little. "King's Landing has some excellent bellfounders, and when pressed, they have managed to produce a serviceable bronze cannon, capable of firing a stone ball of perhaps ten, twelve pounds, or a similar volume of rubble and metal shards, depending on the target. Production, again, is slow, but they, like our musket craftsmen, they are learning fast.

"And," here his smile turned into a grin, "We have something that one of my men thought up. It was an idle thought, but it seemed simple enough, and we wondered why noone thought of it before," he waved them over to a canvas covered object. "We have seen the fireworks the Northerners have been selling these last years, and their rockets used for signaling. So, my apprentice asked, 'why not attach something to a rocket? And have a lot of them together?'" He yanked the canvas cover off the object, revealing a two-wheeled cart, fitted with a wooden frame, within which was a large number of what looked like arrows with something tied to their shafts. "Here we have ten rows of ten rockets, each attached to an arrow, with fuses set to fire them all in one go. You simply point the cart at the enemy, light the fuse, then move out of the way. All hundred fire-arrows ignite, and hurl themselves at the enemy, further and faster than any archer could manage. It is an impressive sight: our men are calling them _wowows_ : mostly because after seeing one in action, that's all they can say," he chuckled.

Twyin wasn't convinced. "Are you certain these are worth the effort and powder?" The latter was the bigger concern: cut off from Dorne and Dragonstone, their supplies of brimstone were limited. They still had plenty of charcoal, and the saltpetre works Tyrion had started was starting to produce, but already they were having to adjust the recipie to use less sulphur.

"Oh, believe me, Lord Tywin, any Northerner army that has to face our _wowows_ will have to change their breeches, begging your pardon," the craftsman apologised, his enthusiasm momentarily running away from his manners. "Against massed armies they should be very effective ... and with a little refinement, we could add a small incendiary charge to the arrows - perhaps a mix of blackpowder and wildfire, as I have heard the pyromancers are producing? If so ... well, I can imagine the effect these would have on riverboats, carrying enemy troops or supplies down the Trident or the Blackwater, out of range of normal archers." He patted the wooden cart. "My lord, I believe these may give us an edge over the rebels, and make them think twice of attacking our forces.

"And if they do?" His smile turned feral. "Well, there will be fewer Northerners in the world, and we will be one step closer to an honorable peace under King Joffrey Baratheon," he said loyaly.

Tywin nodded. "Indeed. You have done well, Master Kurk," he reached into a pouch and pulled out a gold coin, tossing it to the craftsman. Turning away to face Pycelle, he didn't see the odd look Kurk shot him before pocketing the coin. "You have done well, Pycelle. Come, we must speak more of this in private."

"Of course, my lord Hand: I am, as I have ever been, your loyal servant," bowed Pycelle, hobbling after the taller lord.

"Oh, be quiet, and keep up!"

 **XXXIX: Westeros Wedding Crashers, Part 7**

 _AC 300 Riverrun, The Riverlands_

The ceremony was rather brief: Robb wrapped his cloak around Margaery's shoulders under the Riverrun weirwood tree. Her father, grandmother and brother stood at one side, while Catelyn, myself and Uncle Brynden stood on the other. It was small and private, and I didn't hoot a bit when Margaery and Robb kissed-A bit more passionately than they really should have.

Loras did, but Olenna just gave him a smile. Even as Catelyn glared. Robb and Margaery blushed a bit, like real newlyweds. Grey Wind stood nearby, making the septon a bit nervous. But the holy man carried out his duty, heedless of the great dire wolf.

"Under the laws of man and gods, I pronounce you husband and wife," he said. Robb and Margaery nodded, and they slowly turned to walk out of the weirwood. We followed in respectful silence, though I kept smiling broadly.

Why became obvious. The Martells, the Karstarks, and all of our other honored guests were waiting just outside. They applauded wildly, throwing up cheers and shooting guns into the air. Margaery winced at the loud shots, as did Brienne nearby. Oberyn threw up his arms.

"WELL! Now that the boring part is out of the way, let's GET DRUNK!" Oberyn cheered.

Walder Frey laughed loudly. "That's the first bloody thing I've agreed with you about, ya desert rat!"

"Right back at you, river toad!" Oberyn cackled. We hefted Robb and Margaery up on our shoulders and carried them into the Great Hall of Riverrun. Our men revelled around us, drinking and laughing. Guns kept going off-Clearly, we were going to have to talk about firearm safety at some point. Otherwise the North was going to turn into the Middle East.

We entered the Great Hall, lighting shining through the great windows. We carried Robb and Margaery up to the main table, and placed them in chairs. The younger daughters of the Freys threw flower petals from an upper floor. I felt a buxom, curvy body grab me from behind, and spin me around. I was looking into warm brown eyes over a mischievous smile and a cute round nose.

"Lord Theon," said Arianne Martell. "I almost thought you were avoiding me."

"Ah, well, you know… Wedding preparations," I said quickly. "Gotta help my King. He's kind of hopeless with women."

Arianne smiled warmly. "Oh? You consider yourself an expert, then?"

"Only a fool would consider himself an expert on women," I said. She laughed, her unbound breasts bouncing. I tried very hard not to look, but she obviously wanted me to. It was like we were alone on the floor, even with the chatting nobles and guests.

Look, she was _hot_. Like, _smoking hot_. And she was looking at me with her full interest and desire. I'd gotten that more than a few times, but not like this…

"So, you are clever," Arianne said. She wrapped her arms around my waist. A few of the nobles gasped in scandal, but like a good Martell she ignored them. I swore I heard Brienne suck in a deep breath.

"I like to think so," I said. "So… What brings you all up here?" I asked.

Arianne smiled, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered in my ear, "It's a surprise! One my uncle will be revealing… Very soon…"

A sound few in this world had ever heard screeched through the air, and everybody covered their ears. We looked over to the stage, covered in stereos. A gasoline motor was running outside, but the puttering could still be heard faintly through the wall. Ramsay wiped off the microphone in front of his face, and grimaced.

"Ah… Sorry," he said. "Ahem… In honor of our gaining a new Queen, and a married King," Ramsay said, "I'd like to announce we'll be sharing a large number of new songs in honor of our noble liege."

Robb smiled and nodded, as Margaery flushed and beamed appropriately. Catelyn just sat near Roose Bolton, who was replete in his pink cloak as usual. Ramsay cleared his throat.

"With that in mind, I invite my noble father to come and offer his salute to our beloved king and queen," he spoke. Roose stiffened a bit. Robb smiled at him. So did Rickard Karstark, a bit unkindly. The Lord of the Dreadfort directed a cold stare at me. I gave him an innocent look back, as Catelyn Stark stared in some confusion.

"If I must," he said. He rose, brushing his pink cloak back. He strode to the stage, ascending it. Ramsay smiled at him, and moved to allow his father to stand in front of the microphone. I took this opportunity to escape Arianne's grip, and sat with my foster mother. She looked at me in confusion, even as Arianne pouted behind me. I didn't see it, but I could feel it.

"Lord Roose… Sings?" Catelyn asked. I shot Ramsay a thumbs up, which he returned. Ramsay turned to his band (who cowered a bit, but stood up at attention), and glared at the Frey band (who trembled a bit). All the same, they shaped up, and Ramsay waved a baton.

And Roose Bolton took a deep breath and as the band broke out into a hot jazz theme… He sang.

" _ **Out of the tree of life I just picked me a plum,"**_ he crooned, " _ **You came along and everything's startin' to hum…"**_

I grinned and covered my face, trying to avoid laughing. Not because it was terrible, no. In fact, it was the exact opposite: Roose Bolton's voice was golden and smooth. Brienne was actually watching in amazement, Ellaria Sand was smiling widely, and… And…

" _Mother_?" I asked in disbelief. Catelyn was blushing bright red and watching the Lord of the Dreadfort, her eyes shiny.

"Ah…? Oh, uh," Catelyn shook her head. "He's… Very impressive…"

" _ **Still, it's a real good bet, the best is yet to come…"**_

"To be a bit younger," Olenna sighed, "I'd still find him disturbing… But attractive."

"Grandmother!" One of Margaery's cousins gasped, scandalized. Olenna chuckled across the table from us.

" _ **Best is yet to come and babe, won't that be fine?"**_

"Bah… I wasn't saying anything any of these women weren't thinking," she said. "It's good! Makes youknow if the hot spring is still flowing, you know. Some women need more frequent reminders than others…"

"Ah…" And now my hilarity was replaced with horror. "Mother, I should see to some things-"

Catelyn squeezed my hand, and smiled in understanding. "Not at all," she said.

"No, no, stay!" Olenna said. "My younger granddaughter is fascinated by steam ships and engines…"

"I'll say," said the girl, staring at me with a large smile. I smiled back uneasily. Catelyn let my hand go, and I departed. I decided to head to the main table itself, talk to Robb directly. Congratulate him, and his new wife.

Arianne Martell cut me off, taking my hand and smoothly guiding me away towards the stage.

"Ah," I tried, but she cut me off.

"We were interrupted, I'm afraid," she said with a beam. "This song… It's so strange! I've never heard of it before."

"Ah… I heard it a while ago," I admitted. Great. Drunken!Theon strikes again. I had to hope this world wasn't in the Star Trek universe: They'd bust me on the Prime Directive _so hard_ …

I don't know how. I just know they might.

"It's a bit suggestive," Arianne said. I raised my eyebrow as we stood in front of the stage, Roose still going strong. "I like it that way…"

I smiled as she bumped her hip against mine. I returned the bump in turn. "Yeah… Well… I'm kind of variable on the suggestibility of my songs."

"And your women?" She asked with a warm smile. I shrugged, looking around. The Frey band was still going strong in support of Roose, a few of them looking around furtively. My eyes instinctively went over to Walder Frey. Arianne followed my gaze.

"What are you so interested in Lord Frey for?" She asked, squeezing my hand. "Don't like his dancing?"

Indeed, the old bastard was rocking in his wheelchair, enjoying the spectacle. Most of the other nobles seemed to be enjoying it too. Maybe it was old fashioned enough that people would love it regardless of the content. Or perhaps Roose Bolton's golden pipes could charm anyone.

All of which was beside the point. This was not the Red Wedding… I could stay calm… I had to stay calm…

So why was there that feeling of wrongness in me? Just paranoia? Or was I picked up something my conscious mind wasn't processing properly?

There was a disturbing thought… Which was interrupted by Arianne pressing up against me with a smile.

"Do you dance, Lord Theon?" She asked. I coughed, and smiled at her.

"I do. A little," I said. Arianne raised an eyebrow.

"Well, teach me a Northern dance then," she said. I looked over at Robb and Margaery, making small talk in between accepting thanks and gifts. They looked like they were having fun. I looked back at Arianne, and managed a smile.

"Well… Sure," I said. I took her left hand in my right, moved her other arm to my shoulders, and wrapped my left arm around her waist. I went into a simple foxtrot, and was rewarded with her feet stomping on my boots. "Ah, sorry-"

"No, no, just slow down and teach me," Arianne said with a smile. I explained the steps, and as Roose lit into another Sinatra classic, we were going around the open floor before the stage. There was a great deal of staring, and whispering, but I didn't pay it any mind. While that niggling feeling of danger was there… It was easier to ignore with a sweet looking woman dancing close to me to a hot beat.

Maybe ballroom dancing wasn't such a bad thing to have spent a semester on back in my… Real life? Original life? I didn't know anymore… Maybe I should just call myself "Thaleon" from now on.

Arianne giggled, as I brought her to a stop at the end of the song. I separated, and gave her a bow. She returned it, her hand lingering on my shoulder. She grinned at me.

"Well… That, I like," she said.

"Us too!" We looked over at Oberyn and Ellaria, who were emulating a fast waltz as the band launched into another swing favorite-How much had I written out while drunk? Geez…

A few of the more daring couples were taking to the floor, following Oberyn's example. Their steps were clumsy and wild, but they were enjoying themselves. Most of the older guests watched in bemusement, some in resentment… Walder Frey just watched in perverse glee as women were kicking their skirts up enough to show more skin.

"Can I get in another round?" Arianne asked with a smile. "I hope you have more in you…"

I spied Amarda out of the corner of my eye-Just before she moved in and took my hand.

"Excuse me, Princess Arianne," she said politely, adjusting her glasses, "but Lord Theon promised me a dance."

"I did…? Oh! I did! Sorry Arianne," I apologized, "I'll give you another turn. Promise." And Amarda and I were off, as Arianne stared intensely after me. I sighed and swung Amarda around a bit clumsily.

"You looked like you needed an escape," my assistant murmured into my ear. I beamed at her.

"I did… I think," I said. "What's up?"

She rolled her eyes at my odd idiom. "One of the quartermasters has a matter to discuss with you. It sounded urgent," she said. I frowned.

"What kind of matter?"

" _Urgent_ ," Amarda sighed. "I know, vague. I didn't get much more than that from him."

I nodded, that shadow of death feeling growing again. I had to get out of here, I had to-

"I could take care of it, if you'd like," Amarda said gently. I smiled at her, and squeezed her hand.

"I'd appreciate that… You're a godsend, Amarda. You always were."

She looked down, adjusting her glasses, hiding a blush. "Thank you, Lord Theon," she murmured. I nodded.

"Look, just go find out more… I'll be back, and give you another dance," I said softly.

"To keep this inconspicuous, of course," she said. I nodded.

"Of course," I agreed.

"Yes, exactly," she said, a bit too quickly. I didn't have much time to think about this, as she released me. I turned around… And there was Meera, standing in a green dress with a blush on her face. I stared.

"Meera? What are you-?"

"Ah… I was covering the dance floor," she said, "but you know, my father said I should put in an appearance…" She smiled and looked aside. "I didn't know you wanted to dance."

"I-" I tried to explain I wasn't asking her to dance, that I had some business to attend to… And then she took my hands in hers.

"But if you insist, my lord," she said, "I cannot refuse." And off we went, spinning around the floor. I sighed, and saw Amarda and Arianne staring at one another. It looked a bit intense… Then Amarda headed off to do her job, and Arianne resumed prowling the outside of the dance floor, eyes still on me. I gulped and pulled Meera a bit closer.

I didn't know exactly what was going on here, but it was probably not going to end well for me. Tyrion Lannister giving me a knowing smirk and raising a goblet of wine sealed it.

 **Omake: The One-Eyed Kraken**

 _AC 297, Torrhen's Square, The North  
_

The lad had grown tall, this I would say for him. He had more of his mother in him than his father, I think: The hair, the eyes, the shape of his cheekbones.

But behind those eyes, I could see... Ah, _there_ was the Greyjoy in him.

He was talking with a few of the local lords, as an as-yet complete factory was hard going behind them. The roof wasn't on, but the queer machines within were already churning out cloth-Fluff, sheets, everything you might want. Aye, and there were dozens more all across the city I'd seen-Churning out iron and steel, thunderarms and shaped wood. I'd managed to get a look inside-The gears turning, the bellows firing. It all seemed to be organized chaos, twisting and churning.

I was reminded of the small krakens that dwelt in the shallows, pulling themselves along like they were throwing chains out to drag their bulk. How they twisted and wrestled with clams to pull them open, even a few using rocks to help out.

The boy ceased his instructions, looking a bit exasperated. The world ran too slowly for this one, it was easy to see. His elders were impressed, and went off to continue work. He sighed and rubbed the back of his head, looking far older for a moment. A boy who sought to take so much onto his shoulders, to work so hard... Heh. Maybe there was more of me in him than Balon.

Might have been, so long ago... Alannys would never tell my brother, of course. The old cunt saw her for a brooding mare. And in the end, that's all she ever was, clinging to her dead sons. Ignoring the living one...

"Can I help you?" The boy asked, and I smiled a bit behind my balaclava. He was studying me with interest, as I watched through the open window. I leaned on the sill, casual as can be.

"Ah... Jest a veteran lookin' in, boy, nothin' more," I said. "Fought in the Rebellion, I did... Heard there was work."

"Ah," Theon said with a nod, frowning a bit thoughtfully. "There is... The office would be the best place to inquire, Mr...?"

"Stormcrow," I said a bit gruffly. Theon nodded.

"Stormcrow... Sailor?"

I chuckled. "Yes..."

"I gathered... Your hands are rope burned," he said, nodding to my bare fingers.

I again smiled. "Noticed that, did you?"

"It pays to be observant," Theon said with a little smile.

"I too have observed many a thing here, lad," I said. I noted he didn't insist on a correction in my addressing him-Either it was compassion, or the lad didn't care if I added a "Lord" to the start of his name. It did speed up the conversation though, and made him less of a twat. Good that the Greenlanders hadn't gotten that far with him. "All this whirring and whistlin'... Steam and steel... It all seems like witch's cauldrons and black magic to me."

"Bah," he said, waving his hand dismissively. He spoke with his hands a great deal, I noted. "Magic is asking the gods to twist the world to suit you... This is science."

"And what's the difference, m'lad?" I asked. Theon grinned, and knelt down. Such an open, friendly boy. He held up a black bit of coal, left on the floor of the factory.

"Coal burns better than wood, or stone, because of what it's made of," he said. "Different molecules, different _elements_... Small bits growing and combining into bigger and more complex things." He tossed the coal up and down in his hand for a time, not minding the stain on his palm and fingers. "You understand that... You understand what they do, or what they _can_ do, well... It's more akin to learning from the gods. Rather than just asking them for favors."

I slowly nodded, and reached out. He handed the bit of coal to me, and I turned it over in my hands. "So you would supplant the Gods then, lad?"

He shook his head. "No... But if we can understand the world they've created, and how it works, we're better off. We don't have to go to magic for it... We get to determine our own fate, more easily."

I chuckled again. "Good lad..." I tossed the coal back. "Thank you, Theon."

He smiled back. "Thank you, Mister Stormcrow."

I turned and headed off, making my way for the office. I crossed into the crowd of men seeking work, and parted inconspicuously. I rubbed my beard under my wrappings, making my way slowly to the port.

My ship was berthed, taking on supplies, the red paint being reapplied. I nodded to my crew, and slowly headed up to the tiller. My first mate looked up, a question on his face. I shook my head.

"We'll delay a bit longer, Cragorn... After all..." I pulled my balaclava off, letting the evening air run over my face, "my nephew's done quite well for himself... I want to see what other little wonders he's created..."

And I, Euron Greyjoy, recently exiled from the Iron Isles... Allowed myself an easy smile. Still enough to make my crew pause, uncertain. As they should be.


	18. Omake, XL, XLI, XLII, Omake

**OMAKE: A Matter of Titles**

 **AC 299, Riverrun, The Riverlands**

 **Theon**

 **\- - - - - -  
**  
Robb was pacing back and forth in the solar, as he often did nowadays. Even after our victories, he was a man consumed by the enormity of his task and responsibility. I gave a look to Brynden Tully, the awesome old Blackfish, as we paused at the entry way to watch him as he dictated a letter to Amarda.

"... _let us therefore struggle together as one to dispose of this false king, and gain our true sovereignty for ourselves,"_ Robb dictated to Amarda, who was typing up the letter on one of our typewriters. " _Signed Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident, Year 299 After Conquest-"  
_  
"Wait a second, Robb," the Blackfish said, holding a hand up. "King of the North _and_ the Trident?"

Robb blinked. "I'm not supposed to sign it like that?"

"Well, you could have _asked_ Holster or me about it," Brynden said flatly, looking a bit cross. "I mean, ya don't see us callin' you King too, do you?"

Robb looked abashed. "Ah, sorry," he said. "Mother said I could-"

"Ah, Robb," I said carefully, "did Mum ask... Ya know... _Anyone_ about this before telling you?"

Robb blinked. "... I don't think she did... She did say her father would be fine with it-"

"And did you ask anyone _else_ about it?" I asked again. Amarda sighed, and adjusted her glasses in exasperation.

"He did not," she said. Robb scowled.

"I didn't know! I just assumed that since our kingdoms are united together... And I'm a King and all..."

"Lad, ya can't just go and declare yourself king over us too," Brynden said, clapping Robb on the shoulder. "Gotta ask first!" He grinned.

Robb sighed. "Yes Uncle Blackfish... May I call myself the King of the Trident?"

"You've have to ask Edmure first," Brynden said. He turned and cleared his throat. "OI! EDMURE! GET YER ARSE IN HERE!"

As if by magic, Edmure Tully appeared in the door. He was dressed in armor and looked like he was about to go into battle. He also looked about as annoyed as the petulant teenager he _wasn't._

"Yes Uncle?" He asked.

"Robb here wants to call himself King of the Trident," Brynden said. "How do you vote?"

Edmure blinked. "We... We get to vote for our kings now?"

"Uh, well," Robb began, but I smoothly slid in front of him with a bright smile to Edmure.

"Of course! But you can't vote for yourself-It's against the rules."

Edmure grimaced, looking impatient.

"Well, what do I get if I vote for him?"

"Cannons," Amarda said flatly. "More cannons than you've already been given for your expedition."

Edmure immediately brightened, grinning like a boy on Christmas Day.

"Well then... I vote Robb!" Edmure said cheerfully. "He can be King of the Trident!"

"Thanks Edmure," Robb said. Edmure turned and headed off, whistling. Robb looked at Amarda and me in exasperation.

"You know," he said, "I don't think that really lets me call myself that."

Brynden shrugged. "Eh... I'll just tell the nobles that it's to provide a unified front to the Bastard. We can sort out who's King of what after the war's won, lad."

"A wise decision," Amarda said, "prevents tension from brewing in the camps."

"See? Even the genius woman with the nice legs and tits agrees," Brynden said cheerfully. I scowled at him, as did Robb. Amarda flushed, and glared worse than both of us. The Blackfish smiled apologetically. "No offense meant, lass!"

"None taken... I suppose," Amarda muttered.

\- - - - - -

 **XL: Westeros Wedding Crashers, Part 8**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, Riverlands_

\- - - - - - -

Brienne watched the couples dance, and fingered the revolvers at her hips. Part of her wished to be out there, in the arms of a gallant lord ... but her more realistic side knew that she would only embarrass herself. Besides, as King Robb's newest bodyguard, she had other duties to attend to. True, he had insisted that she was off duty for tonight, but it behooved her to keep an eye on her charge.

"Excuse me, my lady, but I was hoping for a moment of your time," came the quiet voice from beside her, and Brienne blinked as she realised that a large, massively overweight man in his middle years was standing next to her, sipping on a goblet of wine.

"Who ..." she began to ask, but she noted his green tunic, that strained to contain his bulk, and the badge of the trident wielding merman on his breast. "Ser Wylas," she hazarded a guess, and the mustachioed lord smiled.

"Indeed, Lady Brienne. Forgive my impertinence, but I wanted to meet you: my daughters, you see, were quite specific in their insistence that I ... _interview_ you."

She blinked. "I ... forgive me, Ser Wylas, but I'm afraid I do not understand. Your daughters were very kind to me when I was aboard the _Sea Wolf_ , and I recall them fondly, but I cannot think of a reason for them to mention me to you. I hope I did not offend them in some way?"

He laughed, his belly rippling at the sound. "Aha! Just as they described. No, my lady, it is quite the opposite: they were quite impressed by you. They also mentioned," he smiled broadly, "That you had interest in becoming a knight, rather than simply an armswoman. Is this true?"

"I ... Ser, I do not ... that is, I wish ..." she sighed. "More than anything."

"Good, good," he said enthusiastically. "Now, my brother and I," he gestured to where another large man stood with some other nobles, still massive but in far better shape than Wylas, "Am here for the wedding, but he shall stay with the King while I return to White Harbour. I wanted to meet you before I left ... and I must say, I am quite as impressed by what I see as Wynafryd claimed I would be."

Brienne was confused. "I am afraid I still do not understand," she said quietly, and the Northern knight grinned.

"Forgive me, I have been quite obtuse, have I not? Lady Brienne," he said formally, "In White Harbour, we have kept the tradition and honour of the title of knight alive, ever since we were exiled from our home, and the Starks took us in and gave us a place in their kingdom. As an anointed knight, it is both my privilege, and my duty, to pass that title along to those whom I find worthy of it. _Any_ knight, it is said, can _create_ a knight, but here in the North we treat the title as a _serious_ burden, not as a status symbol or as an excuse to lord it over the smallfolk. When we charge a knight in the name of the Warrior to be brave, we _mean_ it. When we charge them in the name of the Father to be just, we are serious. And when we charge them in the name of the Mother to defend the young and the innocent, we certainly _mean_ that," he insisted with sudden fire. "In these dark days, I know, this is not so in the South, where sons of lords are knighted as though it were their inborn right, rather than a mark of assuming a mantle of responsibility, to act as a living banner, to encourage others to embrace those self-same ideals.

"When I look at you, Lady Brienne, I see as fine an example of southern chivalry as I have ever seen come from south of the Neck. Oh," he waved a meaty hand, "I will have to see more: your skill at arms, your manners in court, your character on the battlefield and off it, but from my daughter's reports and a frank discussion I had earlier today with Ser Loras," he indicated the Knight of the Flowers, who was dancing nearby with Dacey Mormont, both moving stiffly, as though they each wished to be elsewhere, "I have no doubt that you will meet my standards."

A long hidden and suppressed glimmer of hope started to glow within Brienne, as years of crushing reality and acceptance of the impossibility of achieving her dreams were slowly starting to be lifted.

The Manderly heir lay a hand on her shoulder: he was far shorter than she, and massively out of shape, but there was still a shadow of the champion jouster and swordsman in his eyes. "My Lady, I doubt your path will be an easy one, and even in the lands of King Robb, many may scoff and sneer. But I fully believe that before long, you will stand vigil in a sept, and upon the morn I will dub you _Ser_ Brienne, and at least to any Northern knight, you will be regarded as companion, peer and fellow in the service of chivalry."

For a moment, Brienne couldn't speak, as her throat closed up. "S-ser Wylas," she finally managed, "I have long ... that is, even in the North -"

He laughed again. "Oh, I am sure it will be controversial! Even amongst our Northern folk, warrior women are rare, and women knights are a thing of legend, if not myth! But," he said with a glimmer of mischief in his eye, "If you are willing to stay the course, then I am willing to lead you on the path." He shook his head. "And now I am mixing my metaphors: Lord Eddard, may the Seven illuminate his heathen soul, always told me I did so. But no matter! Come, my lady," he said, offering his hand, which she automatically took. "It would be my honour to be your partner for a dance - but only one, mind you, as I fear I will not have the strength or breath for more than that: I have long spent more time at table than at the list," he added, patting his round belly.

Brienne shook her head. "I fear you would outlast most men, Ser Wylas," she said, but couldn't help smiling back at him, "If you are willing to risk your toes, then who am I to deny you?"

"Marvelous! Come: we shall make fools of ourselves together!" With that, he led her out onto the dance floor, as Lord Bolton continued to croon his strange, slow but compelling melody.

\- - - -

Ten minutes later, Brienne finished her dance, with Ser Wylas bowing deeply, face flushed and sweating, but smiling: despite his weight, he was a surprisingly good dancer, light on his feet with good rhythm: he had even made her feel graceful, for once. Still, he begged off on another dance, but promised to continue their conversation the next day.

So it was with a light heart that Brienne stood back, took a goblet of wine from a passing servant, and settled in to watch the other guests dance the night away ... but she paused when she saw Amarda Honn standing nearby, biting her tongue and fidgeting with her fingers gripping her skirts in an anxiety that was quite unlike her ... on dry land, of course. Curious, Brienne put aside her drink and walked over. "Mistress Honn? Is something the matter?"

The merchant's daughter looked up at her, and Brienne frowned at the worry in her eyes. "Oh! Lady Brienne! I need help: it is extremely urgent!"

Brienne looked over to where Theon was dancing with Meera Reed, another of the warrior maids the North seemed to produce in startling numbers. "I'm afraid the dance just began a moment ago: is there anything I can help you with?" Her talk with Ser Wylas had given her a boost of confidence, and at that moment, Brienne felt that she could accomplish anything she set her mind to.

Amarda shook her head. "It's bad: very bad!" She looked around, checking to see if anyone was nearby and could overhear. Seeing her concern, Brienne placed her hand on the smaller woman's arm and pulled her into a nearby corner.

"Amarda: take a deep breath." Inwardly, Brienne was alarmed: Lord Theon's assitant was rarely flustered. As the girl did as instructed, Brienne couldn't help observing that she suddenly seemed very young and uncertain. "Now, tell me everything from the beginning ..."

"It's easier to show you," Amarda said, taking her forearm and leading her away.

\- - - - -

 **Theon**

It wasn't hard to see Brienne and Amarda off the dance floor. And the concerned look on her face, soon matched by Brienne… Yeah. I wasn't going to stand on ceremony or diplomacy. Not tonight.

Not even for the pair of very large, firm, round boobs pressing against my chest. Arianne Martell had gotten back into my arms, as Ramsay had switched over to Beyond the Sea.

"... So what does steam have to do with cleaning clothes? How does it work without-Ah…!" I pulled away, and turned. "Lord Theon?"

"Sorry Princess, I've got to see to something," I said. Amarda and Brienne were moving to a small side door in the great hall. I tried to go, but Arianne's hands wrapped around mine. She pressed her chest against me again, and breathed in my ear.

"Come now… Surely it can wait," she said. She beamed.

I gave her a long look. "...Nope," I said, turning and heading off quickly. I didn't mind her glare, even though it felt like it was going to ignite my hair. I'd felt worse.

I slipped out the side door and scanned the courtyard. Amid the partying soldiers and common women, I spied Brienne and Amarda heading to an adjacent stable. I crossed the courtyard, nimbly dodging the carousing men and women. I looked over at the kennel-Weird, where was Grey Wind? He wasn't there… My worry deepened, and I quickened my pace.

I made it to the stable, peeking in. I saw Amarda and Brienne walking towards the back. I followed, and cleared my throat. They spun, Amarda going for her gun and Brienne for her sword. They froze, but I held my hands up just in case.

"Lord Theon!" Amarda gasped. "It's you, I-!"

"Not dead, no big deal, explain," I said quickly. Amarda frowned.

"The armory officer sent a messenger… They're missing a few weapons, as well as one of the new explosives you developed," she said. My blood ran ice cold. I looked around, the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.  
 _  
No, no, no…!_

"Amarda said he was meeting us here, but…"

"Then don't say anything," I said. I moved to the nearby stable and took a place behind a wooden column, blocking myself from view. My assistant blinked in momentary confusion, before she heard footsteps. She and Brienne turned back to the door as two figures approached.

One was a young man… What was his name? He was followed by a rough faced, greasy person I had no familiarity with. The boy looked scared.

"Holdyn," Amarda said with a smile. "And… You are?"

The greasy man smiled, shut the doors… The boy took a breath.

"... Lady Amarda, it's a trap! HE'S AN ASSAS-Hurk…!"

The greasy man moved, and he slashed Holdyn's throat open. He fell, and even as Brienne went for her sword the man seized my little assistant and held his dagger up to her throat.

"Hold it, giant bitch!" The greasy man sneered. "One false move and she's bleedin' on yer boots!"

"Let her go or so help me-" Brienne snarled. The assassin smirked.

"Ye' lost a king already-What's one squid's saltwhore?"

I saw red. I stepped out, hand on my gun. The assassin looked back, surprised.

"I told the boy to tell you to come alone! Stupid whore can't even follow instructions!" He snarled. I took a calming breath, as Amarda stayed calm and still. She was brave… Braver than me in this instant.

"Who sent you, and how many of you are there?" I asked. The killer smirked.

"Think I'll tell you?"

"Even if you kill all three of us, you won't escape," I said calmly.

"Che! What with the slaughter inside, they won't notice!" The assassin cackled. "It'll be a regular red weddin'!"

My heart pounded. Sweat beaded on my forehead. The assassin leaned his head out from behind Amarda's, leering over her shoulder. Amarda was tense, breathing hard… Staying calm, and absolutely still. She shifted her weight, just enough… And she gave me a look I had become _very_ familiar with.

A look that said, quite simply, "I trust you." One I'd seen after far too many experiments had gone dangerously awry.

I got it.

Oh! Her captor was saying something, right...

"Now… Let me go, and maybe, maybe I won't kill yer little whore right here-!"

"Here," I said, pulling out my gold bag and tossing it to his and Amarda's feet. "Now-Who hired you?"

The assassin glanced down. He looked back up.

"You can't beat the Crown's gold-" He stopped. I smiled.

"Thanks. All I needed to know. Amarda?"

Amarda ducked her head down and to the right. I drew my gun and fired, the loud retort filling the stable with thunder. The assassin gawped at me, a hole in his forehead… A forehead that soon fell to the floor after Brienne's blade took his head and sent it thumping to the floor. Amarda fell away from the corpse, falling onto trembling knees. I moved over to her, knelt and hugged her. She hugged me back.

We both tried not to look at poor Holdyn, lying there on the floor, lifeless.

"Are you all right?" I asked softly. She nodded, huffing through her nose.

"Y-Yes… I've seen you hit targets… Much smaller and farther away than-than that," she managed. "I knew you could do it and-"

"Good," I said, hugging her. "Find a shady spot. I'll be back." I got up and ran for the doors, Brienne falling into step behind me. The doors were opened and we were met by Lord Karstark and several other men holding guns.

"What the Seven Hells-" The giant, swarthy man demanded, before gunfire filled the air. We turned and saw muzzle flashes coming from the great windows.

"MOVE!" I roared, shoving through the crowd and moving for the Great Hall.  
 _  
Oh God… No… Please, no…!_

I would not let it happen… Not again…!

... Well not again but-Damnit, to hell with it!

\- - - - - -

 **XLI: Westeros Wedding Crashers, Part 9**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands  
_  
 **Tyrion**

 **\- - - - - -  
**  
It wasn't like Tyrion intrinsically hated weddings, no. His own experiences not-withstanding, he enjoyed ample food, wine and song at someone else's expense. Who could argue with that?

Being in the middle of his house's sworn enemies, in the middle of a war said enemies were _winning?_ That dampened the mood of the festivities a bit. Even with the spectacle of Roose Bolton, Lord Leech himself, crooning and making many a maiden's underthings wet.

Maybe he should get into this "crooning" thing. Shae would love it. He'd probably need a new source of employment after things blew up. Assuming he lived that long.

On that happy thought, he sipped his wine and leaned back in his chair. He looked over at King Robb and his new bride, dancing on the floor. They had an almost disgustingly sincere look of awkward but genuine affection for one another. It was sickeningly sweet, like a fairy tale. He drank down some more wine, savoring the slight burn on his throat.

A "photographer" was going around, flashing a light at couples from behind a box. He'd seen plenty of photographs-He was impressed with the technology, of course. But the Dornish were finding more... Interesting ways to utilize it.

Nude magazines! What a concept. He'd make a killing off those poor shmucks at the Wall...

"Ah... Lord Tyrion," said a familiar female voice. Tyrion looked over at Catelyn Stark, standing a bit awkwardly in front of him. He glanced over at Bronn, who shot the Lady of Winterfell a little smirk. He looked back to his former captor, and held up his wine to her.

"Lady Stark... I'm glad to meet you again. Without a gun in your hand," he said politely. Catelyn sighed, and held her hands together tightly.

"I... Apologize for that," she said.

"Little late for that," Tyrion sighed. She winced, and he grimaced a bit. "... I am sorry for your husband," he said.

Catelyn nodded back. "I appreciate that..."

"And I can certainly understand your rage at Jaime," Tyrion said. Catelyn looked at the dwarf, and he sighed. "He told me... Confirmed the news in the papers." He ran his fingers around the rim of his goblet. "About Bran..."

Catelyn nodded at that. Tyrion looked back up at the matron of the King in the North.

"What do you intend to do with him?" Tyrion asked. "You can't hold him forever."

"He'll be tried for his crime," Catelyn said grimly.

"A life for a life...?" Tyrion shook his head. "I really can't allow that."

"Your position is not very strong, Lord Tyrion," Catelyn said, a bit sourly. Tyrion gave her a level look.

"It seems to me that we'd both like to avoid causing further war," he said evenly. "At least, I would... Would you agree to that? With that famous Stark honesty?"

Catelyn set her teeth, and slowly nodded. That slight to her pride hurt her, but Tyrion couldn't regret it. Too much.

"Well then... Who told you that I arranged to have your boy killed?" He asked. Catelyn worried her lower lip. "Come now... Given our situation, it's not like it's all that _vital_ a secret."

"... Petyr Baelish," she said. "He told me."

"Littlefinger hm?" Tyrion asked, raising his eyebrows. "Well! I can't imagine any _ulterior_ motives he might have in such a situation..."

"You can mock me, Lord Tyrion," Catelyn ground out, "but I've learned a few things about him recently. Enough to make me reconsider... _Several_ things."

"Like the fact he betrayed your husband?" Tyrion asked lightly. "Oh, I didn't see it... But I learned of it." He sipped his wine. "For his service to the Crown... He's received much."

"He has not received enough," Catelyn said, in a sad, tortured whisper. She closed her eyes tightly, and despite everything Tyrion found himself feeling a bit of pity for her. He always was far too sentimental for his own good.

"... Your daughter is in good spirits, and health," Tyrion told her. Catelyn looked at him, almost desperately. He nodded back. "Bronn can confirm it, can't you Bronn? I pay him enough to be honest when I ask."

"Your daughter's a fine lass," Bronn said, "likeable. Used to be a bit of an airhead, but she's actually scored a few hits on me. And my short lord here." He smiled, a bit more charming than Tyrion expected of him. "And I've kept Baelish away from her. On principle."

Catelyn sat down next to Tyrion, bowing her head. "Am I really the only one who was _completely_ fooled...?"

Tyrion, despite himself, patted her on her knuckles. "If you were, he wouldn't be in business, would he?"

"Nor would that arsehole," Bronn said with a nod to the band. Tyrion stiffened.

"What arsehole?" He asked. Bronn smiled and nodded, looking non-chalant... But there was a dangerous tension in the sellsword's body language. A warning.

"One of the Frey band members... Seen 'im around the Littlefinger's brothels," he said in a low tone. "Seen 'im a few other places, too... Violent sort of work..."

Tyrion felt his blood run cold. Catelyn stiffened, and sucked in a breath. Tyrion looked at her, and shook his head rapidly. He squeezed her hand, silently begging her to stay quiet.

 _Father wouldn't do it... Send a bunch of assassins into this wedding... We're supposed to stall... So who...?  
_  
The answer came to Tyrion in a second of terrible clarity.

"Well... Isn't that interesting," Tyrion said softly. "So interesting that we should keep it... _Quiet..._ Hm?"

Catelyn took deep breaths... But she managed to nod slowly. Thank the Gods for small favors-A Tully who could _learn.  
_  
"My good Bronn... Perhaps it's for the best we make the guards aware of the situation?" He looked around. "Where is Lady Brienne? I wouldn't mind taking her... For a dance."

"She's outside... With Lady Amarda and Theon," Catelyn whispered. "Who planned this? Who did it-?"

"Bronn, get her out of here," Tyrion said softly.

"Anywhere in particular?" Bronn asked, even as he moved to take her hand. Catelyn rose, confused.

"Out," Tyrion said.

"And what are you going to do-?" Catelyn asked, but Tyrion slammed his goblet onto the table.

"The King!" Tyrion said, a bit louder than he meant. "Yes! A toast to the King!" He banged his goblet on the table again, and the music slowed and stopped. He tried very hard not to look at the band. He stood on the table, and held his goblet up high to Robb and Margaery.

"A toast to the King in the North!" Tyrion spoke loudly. "And of the Trident! I may be a Lannister... But I can respect a worthy foe! I can respect a man who means exactly what he says! Who truly lives up to ideals of honor and duty! Who does, in short, care for his men as a king should!" He wobbled a bit, not entirely feigned. He saw Bronn escorting Catelyn towards the back, passing by a confused Kevan Lannister. "It is regretable we must be involved in this war... Despite our many efforts, we have failed. We drown in blood, and worse crimes are committed." He sighed, looking down. "The sad truth is... Men with power fear losing it, more than anything else. Men who treat that power as a gift, a duty, will flourish without it... But those who treat it as their obligation? Those are the worst."

"I believe the Lannisters would know all about that!" Oberyn Martell called, standing with his own goblet. He beamed sardonically. "Unleashing the Mountain upon my sister and her children... Upon the Riverlands, burning and raping..."

The Riverlanders glared up at Tyrion, and the dwarf took it stoically. He saw Kevan whispering furiously with Catelyn and Bronn. He saw his nephews, with guards to keep them honest, in the line of the band...

"And most recently," Oberyn Martell said with a smirk and a tilt of his head, "the selling of captured Northmen to the Slave Cities of Mereen and Yunkai in exchange for Unsullied."

Gasps filled the room. All eyes stared intently at Tyrion. Hands rested on swords and guns. King Robb himself glared death at Tyrion.

"Th-That's... That's absurd-!" Kevan Lannister shouted. "We wouldn't-!"

The band was shifting, shuffling their instruments. Large containers, holding instruments... Perfect concealment...

Tyrion gulped down his wine, and took a deep breath.

"You're right, Prince Martell," Tyrion said. "The desperation of this war... Has driven my father and my nephew to such horrible acts. Trading your countrymen to Essos, for slave soldiers. To die at their whim. To die to save their legacy... It's a crime that stains all of Westeros." He took another breath. "And worse still... They plot to assassinate you, King Robb. And your bride, and everyone else here. After all, LORD FREY," Tyrion raised his voice, "Where on Planetos did you find THIS BAND?!"

Walder Frey, who had been looking amused, suddenly became even more corpse-like as the blood drained out of his face and his eyes widened. Robb went for his guns, Roose Bolton dove off the stage, and the "Frey" band pulled out guns and began firing. Tyrion locked eyes with one of the assassins, wielding a rifle-An Ironrath repeater, if he was not mistaken. One pointed at him. One being pulled... One being fired...

 _And this is what I get for trying to play the hero,_ Tyrion thought, before the world exploded into booms of thunder and flashes of bullets. He felt like he was falling- _Was this death?_ But he hit the hard floor and air from his very mortal lungs was knocked out. A woman in green with a repeater flipped the table up, as the wedding guests screamed and took cover. She knelt by him, and Tyrion stared in amazement.

"You... You saved me...?" He asked. Meera Reed was grim.

"Not yet..."

"With that outfit? That's service enough," Tyrion said gratefully.

\- - - - - - -

 **XLII: Westeros Wedding Crashers, Part 10**

 **** _AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands_  
 **  
Theon**

 **\- - - - - -**

I charged towards the Great Hall, revolver drawn, and numerous bannermen behind me. People spilled out of the exits and out of broken windows, shrieking and panicking. I shoved my way past, barely able to get out a few apologies.

I could see the door was a hopeless destination, so I shifted over to one of the shattered windows. Gunfire continued to fill the air-A good sign people were still fighting. I looked inside-Smoke and shadows covered most of the interior, as people ran this way and that. I smashed some of the lingering glass and vaulted up over the sill, my feet hitting the stone floor. I threw myself behind an upended table, and peeked over.

The Frey band was behind overturned instruments and speakers, firing wildly. I could spot a few people in pools of blood-Most of them I didn't recognize, but those I did...

I scanned the couple's table-Mercifully, I didn't see Robb or Margaery there. I moved behind another table, and another, making my way to flank the assassins. I saw Meera behind one such table, and I dropped next to her. Tyrion Lannister was kneeling down, looking almost grimly amused.

"One dozen," Meera said, "all armed with repeaters or revolvers."

"I took out one outside," I informed her quickly. "The King?"

"He and his wife took cover," Tyrion said quickly. "How much ammunition do they have, exactly?"

"A lot, if they're wasting it all," I muttered. I was some shifting of hairy heads behind the speakers, and two blurs dash out behind other tables. "They're moving out... Why?"

I heard the roar of Robb's revolvers, and peeked up to see him standing tall and proud to let loose with both barrels. He then ducked back down, narrowly dodging a hail of gunfire. I grimaced.

" _That'_ s why..."

 **Robb**

Robb was not one to just sit passively, no matter how much good sense it might make. He was a King, the Young Wolf-And he would not cower like a frightened child.

He'd take cover like a wolf stalking its prey. But not _cower._ There was a difference.

He'd thrown the heavy oak table over and taken Margaery's hand, and he and his new queen moved quickly off the platform as people ran and screamed. He narrowly avoided being run over by a large man in fine robes-One of the Tully's lesser bannermen, what was his name...?

"Robb!" Margaery hissed, and he felt her fingers grip his shoulder tightly. He pulled back with her, and looked at her questioningly. She pointed, and Robb peeked around the table. The band pit had become a foxhole, and the assassins were firing into the panicking crowd. He grimaced and looked at his wife and queen.

"Stay here," he ordered. She frowned tightly, and gave him a quick kiss. He accepted it, and let go to move quickly from cover to cover. He got to a table with a fallen woman by it-And Oberyn Martell and his niece kneeling by her. It took a moment to recognize her as Ellaria Martell-She had so much blood on her face as she gasped and cried.

"Your Grace," Oberyn said grimly, as Arianne trembled, "I would assist you-"

"Get her out of here, bring back the guards," Robb ordered. Oberyn started, and Robb shook his head. "I'll cover you."

"You're the King," he said. Robb smiled grimly.

"Yes. I am," he said. Oberyn smiled back, blood on his face.

"As you wish," he said. Robb rose quickly, and fired both his revolvers at the assassin's nest. They turned their attention to him, and he turned and ran to the right, their bullets whizzing past his ears. He dropped down behind an ornate fountain in the middle of the great hall, and winced as flecks of stone showered him as bullets whizzed by.

"Damn, damn," he muttered. He reloaded his revolvers, cursing the fact he'd only brought one extra set of rounds-He hadn't expected to be attacked during his own wedding, he hadn't expected any of this...!

Maybe he should have. Joffrey's lust for blood had started this war, after all. Cersei's incestuous lust begat Joffrey.

So many, many ill deeds had brought them here... It almost felt like the final act of a play. As though he might not survive.

He rose and fired again, standing between the fountain's superstructure. One of the assassins behind the improvised cover fell back, his eye bloody. Robb spotted movement out of the corner of his eyes, and ducked-Two other assassins had risen to flank him, firing from behind a heavy table. Robb heard a rifle go off some distance to his right, and caught a glimpse of Meera Reed's hair ducking behind cover. He knew the assassins would duck down-But was she firing at the nest, or the two flanking him?

Robb couldn't know. So he rose and hoped for the best. The heads of the assassins by the stage were down-Those who had been targeting him specifically were ducking down, closer to him, trying to reach cover.

It didn't help, as Robb drew and fired through one of the tables. A cry of pain from the other side rewarded him, and he ducked down. But a sting in his shoulder threw him off, and he slid to the floor on his side. He clutched his shoulder, feeling hot blood and grimaced. His right arm felt numb from the shock, as though it wasn't his. He took deep, measured breaths, and forced his fingers to comply.

Robb sat up, but a heavy body slammed him back down. He grappled with his assailtant-One of the flanking assassins, trying to drive a knife into his gut. Robb fought back, gripping the unassuming, pale haired man and elbowing him in the face. They struggled, gunfire still going off around them.

The assassin punched his bullet wound, and Robb stiffened in agony. The assassin gasped, and pulled his knife to plunge it into Robb's heart.

"Nothin' personal, King in the-"

A gunshot range out, and the assassin's eyes widened as he froze. Robb flipped him over, stealing his knife. He slammed it into the assassin's chest, and his breath left him. Robb glanced up, and saw a shaky-looking Margaery sitting against a table, her small gun in her shaking hands.

He wasn't sure what it was, even with how pale and scared she looked... But at the moment, she looked like the most beautiful woman in the world.

More gunfire came from behind, and he looked over to see Theon and several troops pour in through the busted window. The assassins fired on them, and many fell. Others knelt down and took cover, firing from the windows. It was a mess... It was a disaster...

He had to end it. Fast.

He crawled over to Margaery, and hugged her. "Stay _here,"_ he insisted. She nodded, and didn't move.

Greatjon Umber joined him, carrying smoke bombs and a shotgun. "Your Grace! We have them cornered! We can kill the fuckers right now!" He snarled. Robb shook his head.

"They wouldn't just attack without an exit strategy... But what?"

Greatjon grumbled, and scanned above the table. "Where's Bolton and his bastard?" He muttered, almost distractedly. Robb felt a bit bad for the Bastard of the Dreadfort-Despite his obvious insanity and bloodthirstiness, he was still a loyal Northerner. As was his father. Where did they go?

"He probably escaped, to come back," Robb said. He shook his head. "We've got to dig them out... We need Theon."

"There he is," Dacey Mormont said helpfully, as she knelt next to him with a seven-barreled musket the inhabitants of Bear Island favored. Robb looked up and saw Theon ducking behind the band wagon. Robb cursed.

"Oh _fuck me...!"_ ****

 **Theon**

I had made it to the band wagon, which had been rolled in to serve as the band stage. The electric lines from the outside were still connected-The assassins didn't know what they were, I hoped. That gave me an idea.

… Ah, right. No water piping so I couldn't electrocute them in a puddle of water. Damnit.

Well, what was my plan B...?

"I could sneak in and shoot them," Meera said quietly next to me. I didn't even jump. Too much adrenaline running through me right now.

"Not like this," I said quietly. "We could just keep shooting, but they have to have _something_ to escape with... Unless they're religious fanatics." I grimaced. Had the Lannisters gotten some kind of fanatics to fight here? Smart and yet utterly devoted? How? Why?

What we needed was a distraction... Where was Ramsay? I hadn't seen him escape, nor among the dead...

A hatch opened in the side of the band wagon, and Ramsay slid out on top of me. He grinned up at me, almost sheepish.

"Ah, hello Theon," he said cheerfully. "Lots of shooting going on."

"... Yes, yes there is Ramsay," I said, deadpan. He held up two double barreled shotguns, grenades on a bandoleer.

"Thought I'd get my guns and weapons to kill them more efficiently," he said. "My father went out the window to get help." He frowned in concern. "You haven't been hurt, have you?"

"No," I said. Ramsay nodded.

"Good," he said. "You said you needed a distraction?"

"I didn't say it," I said. Ramsay just grinned, tilting his head in a disturbing fashion. Meera actually shuddered.

"You _always_ need a distraction in these kinds of things," he said. He then rose and ran wildly at the assassin nest, cackling maniacally. I don't think a single mouth was closed as he leaped over the overturned speakers and instruments. One of the assassins got over his shock long enough to point his rifle at Ramsay-And I shot him in the head with my revolver. A second man tried, but Ramsay kicked a guitar into his face before jumping down into the nest and letting loose with all four barrels of his shotguns. I got up and ran after him, Meera firing her repeater to keep the other assassins' heads down. I jumped in after Ramsay, firing my revolver into any non-Bolton masses in front of me. Ramsay cackled, pulling single shot pistols and fired them into the screaming assassins. Two of them tried to flee the nest, but were gunned down in a hail of bullets.

Six assassins were lying, dead or dying around us. And one was left, backed literally into a corner, holding a lit pack of dynamite in front of him with a wild look in his eyes.

"Back off, or I blow us all to the Seventh Hell!" He snarled. "Back off! BACK OFF!"

I rested a hand on Ramsay's shoulder, and he backed up. I looked into the eyes of the bearded man, who was covered in sweat but steady enough to keep the bomb in front of his face. I held my hand up, and Robb and the others stood up, weapons held on the assassin.

"There's no way out," I said with forced calm. "Surrender... And we'll let you go alive."

The assassin laughed harshly. "Fuck you! Like the Young Wolf and a fuckin' Squid would let me go!"

"Well, in exchange for not being blown up, we might be generous..." I trailed off and blinked a few times thanks to the smoke. I studied the sparking wire-It was long, very long. I could just shoot him and put it out now, stop the dynamite from exploding. Odd how calm I was being, considering the pile of dynamite in his...  
 _  
Wait a second..._

"Did you get that pack of dynamite out of the blue crate, or the red crate?" I asked. The assassin blinked incredulously.

"Wha...?"

"Which one?" I asked.

"... The blue one? Marked dynamite-"

"Ohhh," I laughed, feeling relieved even as the fuse burnt down further. "Ohh! That's the flares! You have a pack of signal flares." At the assassin's look of confusion, I elaborated.

"They're fireworks. Harmless fireworks," I said. The assassin gaped.

"I... Wha...?! You have to be-!"

"Look, you can either continue to ward us off with a pack of fireworks," I said, "or you can surrender. You do have information that makes you valuable. But if you want to die without telling us who hired you..." I shrugged. "You're just a weapon. We want the guy who _pointed_ the weapon, right?"

The assassin very slowly nodded. I smiled.

"Right...? Okay, just hand over the flares, and we'll talk. And _nobody_ will shoot him, because he has _very_ important information," I said loudly.

"I can confirm my nephew and father hired them," Tyrion called out from behind a table.

"Helps to have multiple confirmation," I said. I held out my hand. "Well?"

The assassin very slowly handed the pack of flares to me. I took it, spat between my fingers, and put out the sparking wire. The assassin held his hands up, and I backed away. I looked over at Robb.

"Your Grace? Your prisoner," I said. Robb nodded slowly, and two of his banner men came forward to take the man prisoner. They led him away, as Robb looked over the scene of carnage.

"Get the fucking medics in here, _now!"_ He bellowed. I walked up to Robb, as he turned back. He sighed. "Thank you Theon... Thanks the Gods you knew those were flares..."

I turned the package over in my hands. I looked up at Robb, smiling a bit nervously. "Er... About that..."

Robb stared at me, exasperation appearing on his face. I shrugged.

"Um... I think this is... _Actual_ dynamite." I looked over at Ramsay. "Holdyn must have labeled the wrong crates..." I sighed sadly, thinking of the poor kid lying dead in the stables.

"He was a fucking idiot. Can I kill him for this mistake?" Ramsay asked.

"One of the assassins killed him," I said. Ramsay nodded.

"Takes care of that..."

"So we could have all been blown to the Seven Hells," said Robb flatly with a sigh. I shrugged, feeling a bit of a laugh burst out of my lips

"Yes..." I looked and my gaze lingered on poor Torrhen Karstark, lying still and pale. His father kneeled next to him, tending him as best he could. Nearby, one of the Lannister boys-Martyn, I think-was down with a wound in his stomach, as his father and brother tried with the medic Longbarrow to stem his bleeding.

"... Where's Mother?" I asked. Robb's eyes widened. We turned and ran for the exit, inquiring everyone we passed. But the answer was soon enough within our own eyes-Catelyn was being carried by medics on a litter, as her neck bled violently and she thrashed in pain. Robb watched, his face pale and stricken. I stared after her, sucking in a deep breath.

Robb the King was alive... But my mother...?

\- - - - - -

 **Omake - Terrible as an Army with Banners, Part 2**

 _300 AC, The Riverlands, the day after the Wedding_ ****

Brigadier General Roose Ryswell drank his tea as he sat on the log, wincing slightly at the bitterness of the hot liquid. The Brigade had halted for their midday meal, and around him his soldiers rested their aching feet, did some quick repairs to their gear, and wolfed down a thick vegetable and bean stew with bits of pork and beef stuck in it. For the most part they boiled their own tea in kettles placed above their cookfires, prepared from loose leaves they carried in their packs along with extra cartridges, so that their tea had the taste of gunpowder, something at least he was spared. Still, it was better than the men getting sick from river-water, or getting drunk in the middle of a march. ****

"We're making good time," offered Captain Flint as he scraped his bowl with his spoon, seeking the last few morsels of his luncheon. "We've had about six men fall out so far today, mostly with sprained ankles and the like, and one silly bastard who forgot to bother drinking from his canteen: the ambulance wagons still have plenty of room, and they should be able to march again tomorrow, next day at the latest." ****

"So they'll ride at their ease the rest of the way to Riverrun: lucky bastards," said Rysewll with a smile, taking another sip of tea. "Anything else?" ****

"We've got that caisson's wheel remounted, and they should be able to catch up eventually, but we're pushing the Brigade hard," the captain continued. "Four thousand soldiers, plus artillery, support wagons _and_ camp followers making almost twenty miles a day, even on the Kingsroad? Even with that delay at the Twins, we've made _damned_ good time, if you'll pardon my Valyrian, ser." ****

Ryswell tossed the dregs of his tea into the fire, the water hissing as it turned to steam. "Nevertheless," he said, handing his cup over to his steward, who hurried off to wash his mess kit before repacking it into his saddlebags, "I wish we had gotten out of Winterfell just two days earlier: if we had, we could have made it in time for the wedding." He shook his head. "Imagine that, Morcar: Robb Stark, King in the North and the Trident, now marrying the eldest daughter of the lord of the Reach? Three of the most powerful kingdoms of Westeros, united by blood and marriage: a full alliance against the Lannisters, and maybe more, if we can make good on our gains in the West." He smiled. "Our king may gain another title or two before this war is over." ****

"Aye, but we must be careful not to overreach," cautioned Flint, and the General laughed. ****

"Bah, but now we're acting as though we were the King's closest advisers: he's got men - and women - a lot cleverer than the two of us to do that for him, eh?" He stood up and adjusted the buckles of his breastplate, making sure it was seated right. "Anyway, I need to stretch my legs a bit before we get back into the saddle. Would you kindly - what?" he barked at the young ensign who arrived, not more than fourteen years old, looking like his uniform and armour was at least a size too big for him. He'll grow into it fast enough, the General thought as the boy held up a note in a quivering hand. ****

"Courier just arrived from Riverrun, General," he said, swallowing hard in an attempt to keep his voice steady. Ryswell took the note, saluted fist to breastplate, recieved the lad's salute in return, then examined the letter as he scurried off. ****

Then he read it again. ****

Then he bellowed, "Flint!" ****

Despite standing nearby, Captain Flint was more alarmed than insulted by his commander's bark. "Ser?" ****

"Lunch is canceled. Form up the men as soon as you can: I want them marching within fifteen minutes, not a heartbeat later. Detach the artillery and other wagons: the men have enough cold rations to eat as they march." Blinking, the captain nevertheless pulled out a notebook and started jotting down orders with a stub of a pencil. "Assign, let's see, C Company of the Fourth, they're our weakest unit, and the one we can best spare, to stay behind and escort the wagon train as fast as they can safely travel, along with any sick or wounded, and picking up any stragglers we leave behind. The rest of the Brigade will make best speed for Riverrun: forced march, no stopping." He stomped off towards his horse, then turned and glared at Fliunt. "Well, Captain? What are you waiting for?" ****

"But ser? What's in the message? What has happened?" ****

"Treachery and murder, Captain, treachery and bloody murder!"


	19. Omake XLIII, Omake, XLIV

**Omake – Popcorn**

"It's not gonna explode is it?" Sansa asked of Theon, as she, along with the Stark Children huddled around his latest contraption, a spherical metal vessel that he was slowly turning over a fire.

Around him were the rest of the Stark Family, it was currently evening, just a little after they had their dinner, and Theon wanted to show his latest achievement. Well, after assurances to Mother that it was safe of course.

To the other side of the small fire, she could see Arya and Bran trying to get as close to the vessel, while nearby, her Mother was talking with Father about some thing or other concerning guilds?, both were a fair distance away and seemed content to watch the scene, or at least as content as far as father is allowing them. Mother seems to glance at Arya and Bran every now and then, but then father would speak of some matter, and she would be forced back into conversation.

Beside Theon, who was turning a crank to spin the vessel, were her brothers Robb and Jon, both laughing at some jape Theon was making... or were they laughing at Theon himself, hard to tell really. Maester Luwin was at a side table writing notes using one of the new "pencils" he and Theon designed last month. Something she preffered to ink to be honest, the soot was a lot easier to clean than any mistakes she had with the Quill.

She herself was beside Septa Mordane, who with a few servants just arrived with several large bowls which Theon said are necessary for the final product, they had just finished setting them up on the table when she asked the question.

"This here's one of our first steel vessels from out Foundries Sansa, it's been designed and tested by Maester Luwin and myself, so don't worry. And the ingredients for this experiment were imported directly from Essos, so I made sure of everything so we wouldn't waste any material." Theon replied, while turning the crank.

"Aww, no Boom?" Bran whined from across the fire, along with Arya who drooped at hearing all the safety precautions.

"What are you talking about? I just said it's safe, not that there's no explosion! This thing was meant to go boom! Lots of tiny booms in fact!" Theon replied to which they both cheered, while Sansa felt herself step back a bit.

The cheers caught the attention of mother once more, and she started to make her way and maybe drag Arya and Bran back when she heard it, a small 'plink' that sounded like something hitting metal. Robb and Jon straightened from where they were talking and paid more close attention, and Theon got more excited. "It's starting!" he yelled, which got the whole room's attention.

'plink'

'plink' 'plink'

'plink' 'plink' 'pop!'

Soon the ricochets grew in frequency, and it became a rattling. Mother, at that point had already dragged Bran and Arya back to father, while Maester Luwin started to scribble more furiously. a Full minute and the sounds got so loud that Theon had to shout over them to be heard. he had stopped turning the crank and seemed to be trying to put out the fire.

"... Too much oil!..."

"... The pressure ... building up, the latches... not handle it!"

"...Put..out... Fire Jon!"

At some point, Jon seemed to have an idea, something which proved to be wrong, since the expression on Theon's face when he grabbed Theon's waterskin he was drinking from and splashed it onto the fire was something she only saw on mother whenever Theon blows up his lab. He screamed "Duck!" and the three friends who were closest jumped away when the fire roared beneath the steel and almost reached the ceiling before it strangely calmed down and died to an ember.

Everyone stared at the remains of Theon's experiment.

"That wasn't water wasn't it?" Rob asked to a soot covered Theon.

"Nope, too much oil and seed Maester Luwin, but the latches held so it's fine." He then stood up and approached the vessel, after helping Jon up.

" And this is your idea of a fun filled night then Theon?" Sansa heard her father speak from behind them, which had the three boys, and maester Luwin stiffen, sheepishly turning to face the stony visage of one Ned Stark, who during the whole debacle, had shielded Mother, Arya and Bran with his cloak, now as he looked at the three boys and one old man covered in soot, he quirked an eyebrow and asked fo an explanation.

"Well... technically, there really was no danger, and... well, look I'll just show you." Theon shrugged and went to the vessel. Using a dagger he had on his person, he undid the latch from the blackened steel to prove his point.

-Then the whole room was blanketed by white.

Something fluffy, yet not quite as soft as snow, exploded from the top of the latch that Theon opened, and explode it did, rising to a great height, before falling around the room. At first Sansa thought it was snow, but as it fell around her, she felt that it was quite warm, and a little brittle, as she tried to touch one and it cracked in her fingers.

"Quick! get the bowls!" Theon pushed Robb and Jon to gather the stuff, while Maester Luwin was helping. Arya and Bran, who at some point got away from Mother were laughing and playing with it.

"It's crunchy!" Bran exclaimed, seeing him take a bite out of it, Arya took a bite too.

"Could use some salt. But I love it!" Typical Arya, always likes anything made from explosions.

"I call it popcorn, you make it by taking corn kernels and cooking them under high heat and pressure, We kinda miscalculated on the amounts though." said Theon, handing her over a bowl to her. Sansa tried one, and she had to admit, it was strange, it was both fluffy and crunchy at the same time, while being very light, so she tried another to capture the taste. Arya was right though, it could use some salt... and maybe butter... As ideas were forming in her head on how it could be flavored, her mother spoke.

"Really Theon, exploding food now? I thought you said it was safe! Well, you three are going to clean this up, without help from the servants. And don't think I forgot who gave Theon the "waterskin" Robb, I already said no more wine after dinner. You almost gave me a heart attack! Just send a bowl of this popcorn to our room, we're turning in for the night." and with that she walked out with her husband, who had the slightest of twitches in his mouth, out of the room.

"Yes Mother."  
"Yes Lady Stark."

Robb, Jon, and Theon simultaneously replied.

And that, amongst a field of white kernels was how Theon the Genius invented popcorn in Westeros.

 **XLIII: The Aftermath, Part 1**

AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands

Theon

Even without plastics, it is still possible to make fairly sterile conditions if you have the know how. Clean white linens, sterilized with hot water and ammonia, made for a clean medical tent. Facemasks of thinner linens, gloves, and boots boiled and rubbed with distilled hard alcohol. Absolute isolation in a room scrubbed top to bottom with ammonia and primitive bleach, and every tool and piece of equipment that went near the patient was steam cleaned and dunked in 90% proof alcohol. The castle itself had been adapted to Northern standards of sanitation-Human and animal waste was removed and disposed of properly, no more dumping it where you could get away with it.

At first, I'd had to dress up modern medicine in rituals and mysticism. Maybe that was the easiest way to introduce it. Many of our men still stared in awe at the men and women in pure white robes, headwraps, and gloves going through the cleaning and planning of the surgery before they went in. Where they sterilized themselves again, before going to see the patient. As though a flock of wizards was passing by.

Qyburn had caught onto modern medicine the fastest-He had instinctively understood it was tiny _things_ that our bodies could be brought low by. And that these creatures could be killed and removed and thus, life for human beings made much better. Even just this barest scrap of knowledge had revolutionized the North-Oh people still got sick, but a minor cold no longer killed the majority of the people off.

I had explained it to Ned as best I could. Much of it was over his head. The one part that made it though, was the simplest:

" _Our greatest asset is our people. We make them stronger, smarter, and healther. We make them better, and we all benefit."_

All of which was almost no comfort as I sat outside the clinic that used to be the Tully's secondary ballroom, anxious. Amarda was tallying the casualties and helping Robb organize things. Ramsay was organizing the defense while his father underwent surgery from a ricochet.

I wasn't here for him though...

"Lord Theon," said Margaery. I looked up at the queen. She was still pale but had forced her composure back into something regal. I rose, brushing off my jacket.

"My Lady... I mean, Your Grace," I said quickly. She took my hands, and shook her head.

"Margaery will do... After all," and here she smiled sadly at the closed doors, "we are family now..."

"Right, the wedding," I said with a nod.

"That, and..." She looked back at the doors, and I grimaced.

"I'm sorry about Lady Olenna," I said earnestly.

"She was in good spirits, before being taken in," Margaery sighed. "And she didn't even get shot-Just trampled... I'm so sorry about your mother."

I nodded stiffly. She sighed, her shoulders shaking slightly.

"Is... Is there no way we can go in and see them?" She asked.

"... In Winterfell, the operating rooms have glass windows," I said, "So you can watch what's going on... But we couldn't put them up in Riverrun soon enough. I'm sorry..."

Margaery nodded slowly. "That's all right," she said. "You didn't know... You _couldn't_ have known... And it could have been so much worse."

I nodded again, the motion all too familiar to me. While feeling helpless...

"Not... Not quite the wedding you imagined, I gather?" I asked, with a black bit of humor in my smile. She was silent, and I grimaced. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"

"You like to make people laugh," Margaery said gently. "It's all right... I appreciate it." She looked up and smiled sadly. "And no... Not quite. What news of the others?"

I took a deep breath, and avoided looking at the sheet of paper sitting on a bench next to me. "Ellaria Sand took a round to her cheek, and one to her stomach. First one bounced off due to the angle, so it's not lodged in her skull. The second... They don't think it hit anything vital, but they're being careful about extracting it. Lord Manderly got trampled, but they think he'll recover. Lord Umber got his teeth shot out, but nothing more serious. Lord Bolton took a ricochet to the neck, his bleeding's been stopped and he should recover. A few of the Freys took head and shoulder wounds, but none of them too serious. Torrhen Karstark took one to the lung and one to the thigh... They're not sure about him."

I took a final deep breath.

"And my mother... Well... The ricochet hit her in the chest, and another hit her throat... Might be lodged in her lung, near her heart, they don't know..."

She held my hands tightly. I held them back with equal force. Both us trying to hold on, as tight as we could, to the ones we loved.

"Robb... I saw he was hurt," she said. "I didn't see him go in..."

"Oh damn," I muttered. "That stubborn ass..."

"And Lord Karstark said he would be here, but..." She looked around and shrugged. "I don't see him..."

 _Karstark, Karstark... Why is that so-_

"Oh _fuck me,"_ I muttered. I looked Margaery in the eyes. "My queen, find Robb. I have business to attend to-urgent-" I let her go as I said this, and took off in a run. I felt Margaery's eyes following me, but I couldn't slow down.

I couldn't let it happen again... The circumstances were different, yes, but if Rickard Karstark murdered _Tyrion and Kevan..._ The chances of ending this war quickly would be gone.

I sprinted through a bewildering network of hallways, and spied the room the Lannisters had been confined to. The guards were standing stalwart outside it, and saluted as I skidded to a halt.

"Lord Theon," they said. I managed to return the salute, panting.

"Lord Karstark! Where is he?" I demanded.

One of the guards frowned. "He was just here, my Lord. He said he had to take Lord Kevan somewhere private. I offered to go, but he said he had to do this himself-"

'Where did he go?!" I shouted. The guard, shaken, pointed down the hallway. I ran, my lungs burning, my heart pounding. I checked my gun on my belt-Ready to go.

 _Hope I don't have to use it,_ I thought, as I followed the corridor to a small, isolated room. I tried the clasp-It was locked. I took my shoulder to it, grunting at the pain, but the door came loose. I stumbled into the room, pulling my gun-

"Lord Karstark, stop!" I shouted.

Rickard Karstark was sitting with his back to me. He looked back, tears in his eyes... And a big jug of Northern moonshine in his hand. Kevan Lannister was bowing his head, sitting across from him... A similar jug in his hands.

"My Lord?" Rickard asked tightly. I stared at him, and back at the still breathing Kevan Lannister.

"I... Uh... I thought you... Um..."

He looked down at my gun. He looked back at my guilty look. He sighed, and shook his head. He patted Kevan on the shoulder, rose, and walked over to me. He was a great man, Rickard Karstark-Easily a head taller than me. And he rested one of his great hands on my shoulder as he bent down to whisper in my ear.

"His boy... His boy took a bullet for mine," he said softly. "He's dead... My boy though, he's still... And even if it were Lannisters..." He shook his head slowly. "How could a father... A brother...?"

I looked at him without an answer, and then back at Kevan Lannister. Joffrey's great uncle had his face buried in his hands, out of shame or grief... Or probably both. I looked back at Rickard and nodded.

"I understand... Your son... He's fighting," I said. "He... He might make it-"

Rickard nodded. "I know... Told the nurses t' tell me... But until then..." He looked back at Kevan and sighed. "Until then... Well..."

I nodded quickly. "I understand," I said softly. Well, I kind of did. "Just... We don't need any more bloodshed from this," I said.

Rickard Karstark nodded slowly. "I know..."

"Yes, well... Call me if you need anything," I said awkwardly. I turned and walked out of the room. I shut the door behind me, trying not to wince at the creak. I stared at the door for a time... Then turned and headed off.

My King needed me, after all... The moron.

\- - - - - -

 **Omake – Just a little something fun (non-canon)**

*After rescuing Arya from King's Landing, Theon and Ramsay were sitting outside the city, sitting in one of his war wagons*

Ramsay: ... So... Theon... How'd I do?

Theon: Great, Ramsay. You did great... Mission accomplished...

Ramsay: So tell me... Do you still fear me?

Theon: ... I don't fear-

Ramsay: *Stare* Theon... You always have. I finally recognized what it was... Fear. Fear in your eyes about me.

Theon: ... Ramsay, I...

Ramsay: It's all right. I understand why... *beams* For a while... I just wanted to kill everyone to impress my father. Break them and turn them into my toys... I'd call them something like Reek, and treat them like my dog. And they'd be mine, all mine.

Theon: *Stare*

Ramsay: ... Except that wouldn't be nearly as satisfying. I actually... _Like_ people. And not just because they're my toys. I like them for... Stuff they do for me. And I want to do stuff for them. Nice stuff, like murder their enemies. And build explosives. And inspire fear and terror in those who aren't my... Um...

Theon: ... Pack?

Ramsay: *nods* Yes! Pack! I do not want to be a lone wolf... I want to be part of a pack. And you're my packmate.

Theon: ... *smiles* Thanks Ramsay.

Ramsay: You're still a bit afraid of me though, aren't you?

Theon: Just a bit...

Ramsay: Good! I'm actually kind of afraid of you, too.

Theon: *Blinks* Seriously?

Ramsay: Yes. After all, if you asked me to kill myself, I'd be happy to do it. Or fight an impossible battle, during which I'll die. *sighs and pats his shoulder* I don't know if you'll make me do that some day. So I'm a little scared.

Theon: Aw, Ramsay... *Squeezes his hand* I'll never do that... I mean, I might... If it was necessary and there was no other choice.

Ramsay: *beams* See? That's why I like you! You probably have lots of ways to kill me if absolutely necessary!

Theon: ... Maybe a few-?

Ramsay: This is why you're my best friend, Theon! *Hug!*

Theon: *Awkwardly pats his shoulder* I'm... Super fond of you too, Ramsay.

Ramsay: Mm, best friend-

Theon: Hands above the belt, Ramsay.

Ramsay: As you wish!

 **XLVI: The Aftermath, Part 2**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands_

"Go, away with you," Lady Olenna scolded the young man in the white robe, and he scampered off, leaving Margaery sitting by her grandmother's bedside. "Honestly, the nerve of that Stark boy, leaving me with these infants and their quackery!" The elder Tyrell shifted in her bed, wincing, and Margaery moved to adjust her pillows. "Oh, settle down, girl, I'm fine: it will take a lot more than a botched assassination to put me down, don't you worry about that!"

Margaery smiled, but the expression was brittle. Her whole life, her grandmother had been a powerful figure, indomitable and unstoppable, despite her age and stature. Whether it was the mechanations of the Highgarden court or arguments with merchants or clerics, Olenna had managed to outmaneuver, outsmart or simply intimidate any who would get in her way or between her and something she wanted. To see her laid up so, even with only minor injuries, was a considerable blow. "I'm simply worried about you, grandmother," she said as brightly as she could.

"Bah! It's you I'm worrying about: don't think you can hide anything from me now, any more than you could when you were mooning over that groom - what was his name? Lanky lad, sandy blonde hair, brain like a particularly sluggish lizard in winter?"

"Toman, and he was not that bad: hardly clever, but very sweet," Margaery defended her childhood crush, whom she had spent quite a few evenings sighing over, despite the disparity in birth and (to be honest) intellect. "And what exactly do you think I'm trying to hide?"

The old woman shook her head. "You're still all a-fluster about the mess in the banquet hall."

"Well, it was rather memorable, grandmama," she retorted, but she clenched her hands on her skirts at the memory: the cries of pain, the roar of the musketry, the shock of the recoil from her revolver ... she couldn't help but feel her lip quiver.

Olenna reached over and placed her wizened fingers over Margaery's slender hand. "You're hardly the first bride to have an eventful wedding," she insisted.

"But most don't have to kill people in the process," snapped Margaery, and Olenna's fingers tightened their grip.

"Is that what this is about? Seven heaven's, girl, if that's the only blood you have to spill as queen, you should count your blessings and be done with it! You're Queen in the North, my girl, and of a fair part of the rest of the Realm to boot: people will be trying to haul you down off that cold, lonely throne for the rest of your life, and you're going to have to kill a goodly number of them in the process!" Then she sighed. "At least you had that bloody gun the Squid gifted you with: in my day, a lady's options for removing obstacles were a good deal more limited: poison is unreliable, and a dagger to the ribs is dangerous - you have to get too close, you see. A revolver may be loud, smelly and awkward, but I'd wager it is far more convenient than the alternatives."

Olenna granted her granddaughter a warm smile, pausing for breath, before she continued:

"Besides: you fought to protect your husband, a prodigious warrior in his own right. I'll wager the bards are already sharpening their quills to write poems and songs about that little piece of theater: king and queen battling assassins together during their wedding feast? Legends have been forged through less, and we'll hardly have to pay the fops anything to embellish the details!"

"Grandmama," Margaery hissed, her eyes blazing. "I did not ... kill ... those men for the purposes of propaganda!"

"Of course you didn't, but one must never pass up the opportunity to ensure that the correct version of history is recorded," insisted Olenna. "Now, I believe you have a lot more important things to be doing than to sit with an old woman like me."

She blinked. "What? I don't -"

"Oh, for the sake of the Old Gods and the New, girl, it's your _wedding night_! You just became the most powerful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, and you can't spend your evening as Queen with an old crone: your husband is no doubt plotting bloody vengeance with his cronies as we speak! You need to find the boy, sit him down, and make sure he doesn't do anything particularly wool-headed before you have a chance to steer him towards the correct, smarter path. These warrior men, always thinking with their swords - and their cannon, nowadays, I suppose: they need someone with sense to ensure that they don't ride straight off the cliff, and I can't think of anyone else is in a position to do so for that pup - oh, don't gape at me like that, my girl, off with you! Settle your man down, get him properly sozzled, then take him to bed: you can't let a little thing like an assassination attempt get in the way of your bedding, young woman!"

Margaery was more than a little flustered when she left her grandmother's room, but as the four bearded and fur-clad members of the Royal Guards fell into formation about her, hands on the hilts, hafts and butts of their weapons, she kept her back straight and insisted, to herself, that it was mortification at the old lady's typical crudeness, rather than the thought of finally, finally, having her wedding night.

\- - - - -

Voices raised in argument echoed through the heavy, iron-bound oak door even before the guard hauled it open, and as Margaery stepped through she nodded to Brienne, who stood against one of the room's walls, hand on her sword hilt and revolver butt. The female knight nodded to her, her countenance… Slightly changed, though Margaery couldn't exactly name what it was.

"... even if the messenger we sent actually finds them in the dark -" insisted Robb, leaning heavily on the massive table, his broad shoulders emphasised by his somewhat battered and stained but still expensive (and closely cut) tunic, his wolf-fur cloak draped across the back of a nearby chair.

"- it's actually pretty hard to ride past five thousand troops marching up a road in the opposite direction. Besides, from the last raven we received the First is still a fair way off, and our message isn't likely to get to them until this time tomorrow night - best guess," interrupted Theon, sitting with his feet up on a nearby chair, doing his best to look relaxed even as Amarda handed him a sheaf of pages.

" - even then, it will be days before they can actually arrive: we should have brought them down the river, rather than along it," Robb growled, frustration and suppressed rage radiating off him like a Dornish heat mirage. "We must -"

"My lady," said Theon, tossing his papers down and leaping to his feet, before stammering, "I mean, my _queen_!"

Robb straightened up and turned about, his eyes lighting up as he saw his new wife standing in the door. "My ... Your Gra-"

She stepped forward, and placed a finger on his lip. "The next word out of your mouth, husband, will be either 'wife' or 'Margaery': your choice." She turned and smiled at the formerly-Ironborn noble. "Theon, I trust your business with Lord Karstark was concluded satisfactorily?"

He shrugged ruefully. "Forgive my earlier rudeness," he said, shaking his head, "It was a misunderstanding. I ... underestimated Lord Karstark, much to my shame, but all is well. Your grandmother?"

"Is bruised, but in fine spirits," she confirmed, before turning back to Robb, who was collecting himself. "Husband?"

"Wife," he said finally, and she felt her cheeks flush all over again at the force of the condensed emotion pressed into that single word: fear, anger, affection, relief, frustration and lust. From the glitter in his eyes, she felt the last emotion was winning over the others. She couldn't deny that it was an urge she shared. "Forgive me, we were discussing the ... proper response to tonight's ... attack."

"And I was just saying that there's not a lot we can do right now," piped up Theon, running a hand along his closely-cropped beard. "And as I have long discovered, a tired King in the North is a _cranky_ King in the North: Robb," the king turned to look at his suddenly serious face, "I mean it, it's your wedding night. Go, get out of here!" He chuckled suddenly. "I mean, it's not everyday I can tell someone it's their duty to the Realm to go get lai-"

"Meera," snapped Robb, and the girl stepped out of a nearby shadow, slapped Theon on the back of the head, making him yelp, and then vanished again. "Thank you," he said, and offered Margaery his arm, and she gracefully sidled up to him. "My lords, my ladies," he addressed the other occupants of the room, "I shall see you in the morning, as the sun rises," he glanced over at an unrepentant Theon.

"Three hours after dawn, got it," the other man said with a grin, offering a thumbs-up gesture that struck Margaery as vaguely obscene.

"Theon," growled Robb, and Margaery felt a shiver run down her spine ... and into the pit of her stomach, and she was keenly aware of the hard, chiseled body she was pressed up against perhaps too close for decorum.

"Fine: an _hour_ \- we want you good and rested before we start talking offensive operations - don't wear him out too badly, Your Grace," he shot a wink to Margaery, and she couldn't help smiling back.

"I promise to return him in one piece ... _mostly_."

Honestly, Robb's cheeks beneath his beard were as red as hers as they headed out the door and down the stone corridor towards the King's bedchamber ...

\- - - - -

Theon

The back of my head still smarted a bit from Meera's smack, but I was able to keep it together despite how incredibly tired I was. Not to mention the lingering dread over my mother.

I stopped by the infirmary once again, concerned-I found a number of people sitting there, all waiting and hoping. I lingered, standing unsteadily. A small hand found mine, and I looked over at Amarda. I gave her a tired smile.

"You should go to bed," I said gently. She shook her head, fatigue obvious in the loose hairs from her bun and in the lines on her face.

"You need me," she said. I sighed, and rubbed my face.

"Not until tomorrow-"

She gave me a withering look, and I felt as though I'd done something particularly stupid. I winced, and squeezed her hand. My mother… My real mother…? Had often told me that people should simply say "thank you" to the people in their lives more often than asking questions. Well...

"... Thank you," I said softly. I managed a grateful smile to her, and she snorted despite the smile on her face.

"I should be saying that," she said. "As inadequate as it would be-"

"Oh stop it," I said, a bit harsher than I intended given the surprised and hurt look she wore. I frowned, and squeezed her hand comfortingly. I brought it up to my lips, and kissed the back of her palm. "You're important to me, Amarda… Important enough to save. Every time. Don't ever think otherwise, hm?"

I actually got a blush on her cheeks, which she hid by looking down at the floor. "My… My Lord," she stammered, "I… I just-"

"Theon?"

I looked over to Maester Luwin, who had emerged from the make-shift hospital. The old man was looking exhausted, but triumphant. I found a smile on my face as I embraced my mentor, and he hugged me back.

"Is she-?"

"She will be fine," Luwin said. "That typing method we worked out for the blood transfusion-It saved her. She's resting now."

I nodded. "I… I… Thank you," I said, blinking tears out of my eyes.

I didn't fail… I didn't fail… Despite nearly fucking up everything and a Red Wedding happening, I hadn't failed.

Then again, it wasn't like I could take all the credit. Maybe a third…

"Now, go rest boy," Luwin said, a disapproving look on his face, "you've done enough and you're not going to help anyone dead on your feet!"

"I am _, I am_ ," I protested. "But I've got to take care of one other thing or-"

"Lady Amarda," Luwin said politely to my faithful assistant, "see that he gets to bed."

"Yes Maester," Amarda said. Her face was back to a focused, professional mask-The vulnerability she'd let me see was gone. I looked between them, pleadingly…

"Go lad! Don't be such a stubborn ass," Luwin snorted. I sighed, grumbling a bit as I allowed Amarda to lead me away by the hand.

"Fine… But it's not fair," I muttered.

"Invent a way to go without sleep, lad, then you can stay up later," Luwin admonished. I smirked back a bit.

"Just watch me, old man."

"Yes, but you're not making it tonight!" He called after us as he headed down the corridor.

\- - - - - -

At last, we found the door to my chambers. I really was too tired to remember where it all was. Thank God for Amarda, as always. I opened the doors, and looked over at Amarda with a grateful smile.

"Thank you Amarda," I said. She hesitated, and I frowned. "Amarda? You all right?"

"I… Theon, I... " She fidgeted a bit. "You know… Ah… Given the earlier matter-"

"Amarda? Are you at a loss for words?" I asked in disbelief. " _You_?"

It was the first time it had ever happened.

She took a deep breath, and stepped into my chambers. She pushed herself up close to me. I could smell her-The faint fragrance of simple cleaners and a fruity soap, a bit of sweat… I swallowed as Amarda looked up at me over her glasses.

"... I believe a mere _thank you_ is inadequate," she whispered. "For what you've done for me…"

"Uh…" I backed up a little, and she followed. I pinpointed the bedchambers, and slowly backed that way. It did have a door, with a lock. "That's okay… You really don't-"

"But what if I wanted to?" Amarda asked, pressing up against me again. I reached back on the handle for the door, and turned it to open the doors to the bedroom. In hindsight, maybe not a great idea. "What if-?"

"My lord Theon," spoke a husky female voice, "I'm very glad you…"

I looked up at the ceiling for some sign of help. Seeing none, I sighed and looked over at my bed. Yep, there was Arianne Martell, naked, sitting on my bed and looking surprised. Amarda looked surprised too, for a moment… Before her eyes narrowed dangerously. Arianne's narrowed as well, but she wore a smirk.

"Well… I see you were about to celebrate your mother's recovery early," she said.

"It's… It's not like that, it really isn't-" I tried to protest, but Arianne shook her head.

"No no! It's entirely understandable… In fact," and here the Dornish princess smiled broadly, "I could teach you both some ways to make it… _Even_ better."

I looked over at Arianne, and tried very hard not to stare at her boobs. Seeing that was impossible, I forced my gaze back over to Amarda. She was blushing a bit, looking affronted and… Considering?

"... You know what? I'm just going to sleep in the barracks," I said. I nodded politely to Arianne. "Have a pleasant sleep, Princess." I turned to Amarda and gave her a slightly awkward hug. "I'll see you in the morning, Amarda. Thank you… But it's enough you're alive, all right?"

Amarda stared at me, looking a bit hurt… But she nodded. "Yes my Lord," she said flatly. I winced, and hugged her again.

"Remember… Saving the world first, right?" I muttered into her ear. She looked at me in bewilderment… And then smiled.

A smile that sent shivers down my spine.

"Yes, My Lord," she said. I smiled back.

"Right. Good night," I said, again nodding politely to a gobsmacked Arianne and turning to walk out. I shut the door to my chambers behind me, and let out a breath I'd been holding… For a while. I leaned against the door, and rubbed my face.

"Holy crap…" I mumbled.

"Frankly Theon," said Ramsay, appearing out of nowhere again, "I'd have gone for it."

"Is your father doing okay?" I asked. The Bolton bastard nodded. "Then I don't feel guilty about telling you to fuck off."

Ramsay just laughed. Smarmy jerk…


	20. XLVII, XLVIII, XLIX, Omake, XLX

**XLV: Meanwhile, in Slaver's Bay PART 3**

 _The road between Astapor and Yunkai, Essos, AC 300_

 _\- - - - -  
_  
 **Daenerys  
**  
It had been a short, but brutal overthrow. The Masters of Astapor were all deposed, and her Unsullied army had chosen to stay with her when she offered them freedom. But Daenerys Targaryan had not been content with simply handing over the city to the enslaved. She had to prove herself, after all.

So a few months of hard work later, she was finally comfortable enough to move on to the next Slave City-Yunkai. And as she rode along, she clutched the proof of her work in her hands. She still couldn't help looking down at the headline of Astapor's first newspaper with a smile.

 _The Chain Breaker,_ it was called. And the first issue: "DRAGON MOTHER FREES ASTAPOR."

The printing press had not been too hard to obtain-The Astaporian Masters had gotten their hands on several to reproduce their books. Not from the North, exactly, but purchased from Braavos. It was a pity they couldn't produce photographs, but she had at least commissioned artists to draw the scenes of the sacking, and the aftermath.

A city council. Companies and unions forming. A court system backed with some of her Army to give it teeth, to treat all fairly. It was crude, yes... But it would hold the city until she finished her mission. And the thousands of copies of the _Chain Breaker_ she was distributing far and wide would make the other Slaver Bay cities think twice. Their slaves would be given hope-And that was her greatest weapon.

So intent on her newspaper, she had begun to tune out Ser Selmy and Ser Jorah's conversation... Until she heard mention of "Robb Stark". She didn't look back at her two knights, but instead tilted her head to hear better.

"... I will admit, I wish I was back there sometimes," Selmy said with a wistful air to his voice. "Especially with this news of the Lannisters... Ha! To see that boy king's face when that _uncle_ of his got knocked on his arse!"

"I imagine such a look was on your face as well, Ser Barristan," Jorah said. "It was on mine."

"That's only natural," Barristan grunted. "But the boy thinks his gold and name and _crown_ are all you need to win... The Starks have upended the entire thing."

"You're sure, then, that they are the ones we should contact?" asked Jorah, almost casually, but with just a hint of an edge. "You were closer to King's Landing..."

"And you are a Northman, are you not?" Asked Barristan dryly.

"A North I am not welcome in," Jorah pointed out. Barristan hummed.

"True... But given the choices... I mean, Renly was slain by Stannis. Black Magic was involved... We can't align with _him._ Even if Stannis wasn't the most inflexible man who ever lived."

Jorah sighed long, and Dany could see his solemn face in her mind's eye. "Granted... And if he's anything like his father, King Robb won't want the Iron Throne."

"He's said as much in these newsheets quite often," Barristan observed.

"We both know that it is actions that define men, not words on a page," Jorah responded, just a bit tightly. Barristan snorted again.

"Then why did you remind me?"

Sensing an argument about to break out, Daenerys had her horse drop back between the knights. They moved aside, and both muttered "Your Grace" in apology. She smiled at her loyal, stalwart knights.

"Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah... I do believe that the North is our best option," she said diplomatically. "In fact... As soon as we take Yunkai, I wish to open formal relations with the North."

"Why Yunkai, Your Grace?" Barristan asked curiously. Jorah smiled in admiration and approval.

"From what I know, the thunderarms of the North rely on certain materials to work," Jorah said. "They make much of it, but a few key ingredients are needed. Yunkai has been shipping a fair amount to the North."

"What?" Barristan asked, surprised. "But the Slaver Bay cities _hate_ the North! They refused any trade with the Iron Throne when they heard Ned Stark was going to be made Hand!"

Much of those details escaped Ser Barristan, but the uproar in the Red Keep had been hard to forget. Especially with Petyr Baelish's frantic scrambling to work out a new trade agreement to allow trade to resume.

"Yes, but at least a number of Yunkai merchants managed to arrange some clandestine trade agreements for something called 'saltpetre'," Jorah further explained. "High up enough they could not be touched, but low enough in the hierarchy to not be noticed by the other cities."

"It is my hope that we can establish relations with the North through those traders," Daenerys said. Her eyes narrowed. "At least those who have not been involved in slaving... Those I will deal with _myself."  
_  
The cold glare on the Dragon Queen's face made both men fall silent for a time. The dark look left Dany's face, and she was once again the serene Khaleesi.

"That said, Your Grace," Barristan began, "what do we say to King Robb? While the Unsullied are formidable, I don't think landing on the Blackwater with them will endear us to the North."

"That is why I will instead request reporters and photographers from the _Westeros Despoiler_ to come to interview me and my people," Daenerys said confidently. Barristan looked surprised, but Dany just smiled. "It will introduce the people of Westeros to me, just as the _Chain Breaker_ is introducing me to Essos. That is the way to reach out to the smallfolk-To know me as a person, and not some foreign queen with dragons. To understand why I wish to return to the throne, and make right what has been done wrong."

Jorah smiled as well, pride in his gaze. She felt proud of impressing him-He was the closest thing to a father she'd ever had.

"Wise," Ser Barristan said, nodding. "Though if I may suggest? We try to specifically contact Theon Greyjoy."

"Why?" Daenerys asked with a frown.

Jorah actually looked at Barristan in agreement, before he answered for the older knight.

"From what I know of the lad," Jorah said, "he would be more amenable to an alliance. He is the one who started this revolution, after all-We get his ear, and King Robb is certain to follow."

Daenerys smiled with a slight blush. "True... But I do not think marriage to him would work quite as well as to King Robb."

Jorah's brows shot up. "Ah... Khaleesi?"

"It is a card I am willing to play," Daenerys said, "in order to unite the Seven Kingdoms." She sighed and smiled wryly. "It isn't the first time I've married to secure an alliance. King Robb is the logical choice, after all."

Jorah nodded, looking a bit more relaxed. Dany smiled a bit impishly.

"Besides... I do not think it would be too unpleasant a union," she said, "given what you knights and the newspapers have told me of him! The Young Wolf, indeed..."

Jorah was back to being tense. Ser Barristan chuckled.

"Your Grace, please! I am but your humble knight. Perhaps you should save such talk for your hand maidens?"

"Perhaps I will," Daenerys said with a thoughtful nod.

\- - - - -

Grey Worm's messenger had returned with a corpulent man of Yunkai and several gold laden horses. Daenerys met him in her tent, and made her demands known. The Master, named Bezzaq, tried to buy her off. Then he tried to threaten her with "powerful friends". It didn't work, and Dany sent him on his way back without any of his bribe. Daenerys leaned back on her folding chair, sighing softly, as her dragons lounged in the shade around her. Her knights, Grey Worm, and Missandei all waited in silence.

"... Ser Jorah? We must find out who these 'powerful friends' of Yunkai are," she said. "Grey Worm, you and Ser Jorah seek out more information."

"Of course, Khaleesi," both Jorah and Grey Worm said with twin bows.

Grey Worm straightened up, and patted his thigh. Another Unsullied, the messenger, came forward with a chest.

"Khaleesi," the messenger said, "I obtained several copies of the _Westeros Despoiler_ as ordered." He opened the chest, and Daenerys eagerly leaned forward to sort through the papers. "The merchant informed me many were older copies, but the most recent one he could obtain was at the bottom."

"I'll have him sort this out properly when we take Yunkai," Dany murmured, already disliking the disorganized nature of these papers. Books should be treated with respect! "If you all would go...?"

"Of course, Khaleesi," Jorah said with a bow. Barristan headed out with a bow and a fond smile, while Grey Worm and his messenger exited as stoic as they'd entered. Missandei left, shutting the tent behind her. She turned to get some water for her Queen... When she heard a gasp and a cry of rage.

" **Graddakh! Ezas eshna gech ahilee! VIKEESI!"** The queen cursed in Dothraki, before switching to even fouler phrases. Barristan, Jorah, and Grey Worm rushed in, hands on their weapons, as Missandei hurried after. They burst into the tent.

"Khaleesi! Are you all right?" Jorah gasped.

"Your Grace!" Selmy cried.

Daenerys stood up on the carpet, kicking her chair apart. Her dragons watched in confusion, as she waved a newspaper around. Her face was red in fury.

"That-That-Oooh!" She snarled, "that _flower whore!"  
_  
Jorah approached carefully, as carefully as he would one of Daenerys' dragons. "Khaleesi...?"

Daenerys scowled, and held up the newspaper. Jorah read it aloud, for the benefit of Missandei and Grey Worm Dany presumed.

" _Royal Wedding Announced: His Grace King Robb Stark to be joined in marriage with Lady Margaery Tyrell of the Reach,"_ he spoke. Barristan sighed and shook his head.

"Well... Suppose that's that," he said. "Marriage alliance is out of the question-"

"True, but King Robb will no doubt want to deal with us anyway," Jorah said quickly, looking relieved. Dany nodded, taking deep breaths.

"Of course, of course," she said with a sigh, "but I really wanted to... I mean..." She blushed furiously and scowled at the floor. "I feel so _foolish..."  
_  
"You still have a woman's heart, Your Grace," Barristan said kindly, putting a hand on Daenery's shoulder. "It is nothing to be ashamed of. You know to manage it properly, which is how a true Queen should. But an outburst is perfectly fine."

Daenerys nodded. "Of course... There are still many ways to secure this alliance," she said. "Many ways..."

Jorah nodded and smiled. "Indeed, Khaleesi... There's no need to be hurt by this. It may be a blessing in disguise-This way, we can have both the Reach and the North on our side."

"Besides," Missandei said, pointing to the picture on the front page, "I don't think Lord Greyjoy is married."

Daenerys held it up, and studied the handsome Genius smiling mischievously at his adopted brother and his new bride. She smiled, and reached down to pat the head of Drogon.

"Yes... You're right," she murmured. "And I wanted to thank him for that book..." She looked to Jorah. "Perhaps you were right, Ser Jorah! Perhaps we should contact him first!" She beamed at her most stalwart and loyal knight, and cupped his cheek. "You are, in all ways, my very best friend."

"... Thank you, Khaleesi," Jorah said, his face drooping a bit. He straightened, but still looked depressed. "If you will excuse me, Your Grace, Grey Worm and I have work to do." He turned at her nod, and headed out, Grey Worm following. Barristan watched him go, a slight smirk on his face. Daenerys paid this little mind-Men were always smirking at one another, competing like wolves...

"Come Missandei," Daenerys said, "we must train my dragons today... And see if we can't find out a bit more about Lord Greyjoy, mm?"

Her handmaiden smiled and nodded. "Of course, Khaleesi!"

 **XLVIII: Alea Iacta Est, Part 1**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands_  
 **  
Theon  
\- - - - - - -**

The workshop Lord Tully had set up for us was almost good enough to match home. But that was mainly because I had a soldering iron now, thanks to the electrical generator Ramsay had brought. The prospect of a new toy to play with raised my spirits considerably, as I worked on one of the radios. My mentor and friend, Luwin, was at my side. No doubt about to dispense some helpful advice or great wisdom.

"So… You had two women vying for you-" He said. I grimaced behind my goggles.

"Don't want to talk about it," I muttered, as I finished a circuit.

"One of whom was entirely fine with another woman involved," Luwin went on.

"Really don't want to talk about it," I said.

Luwin shook his head, and patted me on the shoulder. "Lad… You may be a Greyjoy by blood, but you're all Stark when it comes to your own joys."

"I shouldn't take that as a compliment, should I?" I mumbled. Luwin pushed up my goggles, and I looked over at him. The kindly old Maester, a man who was like my grandfather in all things, was smirking a bit.

"Theon, son… I'm just saying, you shouldn't exclude joy from your life," he said. "You have great responsibilities, yes… But you can fit in moments of happiness to make it all worthwhile, can't you?"

"There are a lot of complications involved," I pointed out. "I mean, politics, intrigue. Not to mention Amarda's…"

"You care for her and don't want others to see her as merely your mistress," Luwin said. I grimaced and looked back at the radio assembly. Not because I was being petulant, no. I just saw that one of the vacuum tubes was excessively dusty.

"... She deserves better," I said. Luwin chuckled.

"The lady knows what she wants," he said.

"Yeah, but with Robb married…" I trailed off. "I mean, we're going to need alliances." I looked up at my mentor with a frown. "Are you saying I should just… Go for my heart?"

"I'm saying, lad, that there is a princess interested in you, politically connected, who would not be averse to you having a mistress," Luwin said seriously… And then he smirked.

"And you thought yourself out of it. You really are too smart for your own good."

I gaped at my mentor and grandfather figure. "... You just want me to get laid?!"

"My boy, I have never seen a Stark need to get laid more," Luwin said. "Save for Robb. And since that's sorted…"

A raven flew through the window, and waited expectantly. I took the distraction from this disturbing turn of events, and took the message. I unfurled it and read the message. I looked over at Luwin.

"Speaking of Robb… We've been summoned to a meeting. We'll resume this discussion never," I said quickly, getting up and brushing off my coat. "Seriously, what's with all this interest in my love life?"

Luwin chuckled, and I moved to open the door for him as he shuffled over to the exit.

"It's a time of great change, Theon. War, revolution, marriage… And I would like another young Squid to raise up. To see what wonders he'll come up… Or she, for that matter," he said as he walked out. I followed him, closing the door and locking it behind us. I walked alongside Luwin, and shook my head.

"Ha… For all your wisdom, you just want grandbabies to spoil," I replied. Luwin chuckled.

"Call it a bit of sentimentality on an old man's part," he said.

\- - - - -

We entered a small meeting room, adjacent to the Great Hall. We passed by several of the servants still cleaning up after the gun battle, poor guys. On the other hand, I'd seen (and cleaned up) far worse, so my empathy was a bit limited.

The small meeting room was covered in garish tapestries, surrounding a table that was a bit too long. Robb was sitting at the head, his chair pressed against the wall. An injured but still stoic Roose Bolton, Greatjon Umber, Lord Karstark, Dacey Mormont, Oberyn Martell, Loras Tyrell, Uncle Blackfish, Brienne, and even Walder Frey were packed in. Despite the lack of room and the irritating decorations, Robb was looking smug as hell. The fact Margaery wasn't there was a good clue as to why.

"Why the ravens and why the crappy room?" I asked. Walder Frey harrumphed.

"The Squid's talking sense! Why are we all squeezed in here like too many cocks in a tavern whore?!"

"Not quite how I'd put it," Dacey said. Brienne made a face, but she became less tense when I squeezed in next to her to be by Robb. The King sighed.

"But works well enough… The fact is, unless you'd like to share this secret discussion in a tent or with the wounded, this is the best we can do," Robb said. "Besides," he looked over at me, "it's harder to eavesdrop in here."

"Because all of us in one place, not gonna draw any attention," Oberyn said wryly. That got some laughs. Robb stood up, and cleared his throat.

"As long as they don't know exactly what we're saying, it will work just fine," Robb stated. He pulled a folder out, and produced several stacks of papers. They were held together with paperclips-Huh! I remembered when I invented those. It really wasn't that hard.

He passed the papers out, and everyone took a copy. I took mine, and flipped through it quickly. I hid my reaction as best I could. Roose Bolton, that creepy bastard, just put his papers down after he read it and looked at Robb intently. Everyone else was looking either amazed, or carefully poker-faced.

"Your Grace… This is dangerous," Roose said in his gravelly tone. The bullet to his throat had apparently not hit anywhere vital, despite the large number of bandages across his neck.

"Dangerous… But necessary," Robb said. He looked over at Loras, who was looking gobsmacked. He glanced over at Uncle Blackfish, who had wide eyes. Finally, he looked at Oberyn Martell, who stared back in silence.

The Crown Prince of Dorne… Then grinned broadly, and laughed.

"I'm in!" He crowed.

"What, you Targaryan fetishists are gonna back this insanity?" Walder asked with a snort.

"Aren't you?" Asked Oberyn, raising his eyebrows. Frey growled, and smacked his hand on the table.

"Of course I bloody am! That blonde twat tried to kill me, and frame me! Fuck that Pointy Chair, and fuck him in his mother's twat!"

"Good thing we have Jaime Lannister to take care of that," Uncle Blackfish said. Much laughter ensued, which died off when Margaery-Sorry, Queen Margaery-entered. She smiled broadly at everyone, but the majority of her warmth was directed squarely at Robb. Who smiled just as goofily back.

"Hope I'm not too late?" She asked. Robb shook his head.

"No, you're right on time," he said, sliding another copy of the speech across the table to her. She took it, and shook her head.

"I read it on the way here," she said. "You left one by the bed."

"She kept her wits about her? Bodes ill for the rest of the marriage," Walder Frey snorted.

"Watch your damn tongue!" Greatjon growled. Walder snorted.

"Watch yours, you damn-"

"Now now," Margaery said, walking very, very slowly over to Robb's side. She looked out at the gathered nobles and lords, and smiled. "King Robb performed… Just fine."

Robb's smug expression grew. Margaery rested a hand on his shoulder, and her smile grew just a hair.

"But as with all men, there is always room for improvement," she said with a bat of her eyelashes. Robb looked up at her, his jaw dropped. I snorted… And the room was soon filled with laughter again. Brienne of Tarth remained stoic, but was blushing furiously.

"Ah, to the Queen in the North!" Blackfish laughed. "She's fitting in already!"

"Can we please get back on topic?" Asked Robb.

"Of course, your Grace," I snickered. "Ahem… So… The Riverlands are for this… Dorne too…" I looked around. "I think we know where the North stands… So… How about the Reach?"

Margaery smiled at her brother. He smiled uneasily back, and nodded.

"We will need to talk to my lord father… But given my grandmother is in favor of this, I believe you can count on our support." She squeezed Robb's shoulder. "In all things, my King."

"As long as he continues to improve," snarked Walder Frey. Again, much laughter and much glaring. "Now, Boomsquid… What about your kingdom?"

I sighed. "The Kingsmoot is still going on… But I doubt they'll go after any of us. We're too dangerous of targets."

"That's still four Kingdoms," Uncle Blackfish said. "I'd say that's enough... Are you going to do this then, Your Grace?"

Robb nodded, and raised his chin. He looked like a real noble king, a champion of humanity.

"I am… And I'm going to tell the people at noon. Gather your troops… They all need to hear this." He smiled wryly. "After all… I've still got to sell them. Thank you all…"

Various responses of "Your Grace" ensued, and the lords headed out. Lord Frey was pushed out by one of his numerous relatives, laughing softly as he did. Soon, only myself, Margaery, Brienne, Luwin and Robb were left behind. Robb sighed, and looked over at me.

"Four kingdoms… But we're going to need one more," he said. Brienne frowned.

"Tarth's influence is limited, my Lord… But I can speak to my Lord Father."

"I appreciate that, Brienne," Robb said with a nod, "but I wasn't talking about the Stormlands. I was talking about… The Westerlands."

I raised my eyebrow. "What…?"

"And fortunately, we have several fairly sensible members of the ruling family of that kingdom with us," Robb continued, grinning at me. I blinked, and looked over at Margaery.

"He's gotten clever. Good work," I said with a nod. Margaery sighed.

"I've only just started… There's so much more to do."

"Would you please stop talking about me like I'm not here?" Robb groused. I grinned.

"Nope…"

"Well, just for that, I'll leave that up to you," Robb said with a smile. I sighed.

"Damnit… Why isn't she getting punished?" I asked, pointing at Margaery. She smiled and shrugged, grasping Robb's arm. She lightly bit her lower lip.

"Must I go into such details, Lord Theon?" She asked coquettishly. Robb blushed again. Brienne cleared her throat.

"If I may, your Graces… Will you be like this for much longer?"

"Probably," Luwin observed. Brienne nodded.

"I see," she sighed. Margaery laughed.

"I'm sorry Brienne… You'll just have to get used to it."

Robb nodded, and cleared his throat. "Yeah… But after you get that done, Theon…? I have a much more important job for you."

"What?" I asked, blinking curiously.

"Saving our sisters," he said. I nodded very slowly.

"So… Two miracles then?"

"You come up with miracles daily, just add on another," Robb said. He grinned. "You certainly won't let any women get in the way-"

"Robbbb!"

 **XLIX: Alea Iacta Est, Part 2**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands_  
 **  
Theon**

The dungeons of Riverrun were much like dungeons everywhere-Stinky, dark, and depressing. My boots echoed on the tile floor, and I ignored the sounds made by the other prisoners as I passed by.

I finally came to the last cell on the block, and I nodded to the guard. He grimaced.

"Lord Theon… Are you sure-?"

"I'm sure," I said. The guard nodded, and unlocked the door. He pulled it open with a loud creak, and I looked at the chained up form of the prisoner within. He looked up at me and smirked that cocky Lannister smile at me.

"Well, well, well… Theon Greyjoy! Been a while since we talked, hasn't it?" He asked. "If you're spurning the Bolton Bastard, I might be up to the task…"

The guard growled. I sighed, and raised my hand up.

"Leave us," I said.

"My lord-"

"Go, damnit," I said. I stepped into the cell, and the guard shut the door behind me. He headed off, his lantern swinging. Jaime Lannister stared at me, eyebrows raised.

"So I was right then? You Ironborn do love your captives… Bound in chains, utterly helpless. That help you get in the mood to perform?"

I stayed silent, watching him. He stared back, and tried again to provoke me.

"A pretty blonde thing like me… Does it make you ache? To whip me and boss me around? A certain satisfaction? All about power, right? Dogs humping lesser males…"

I still said nothing. Jaime glowered a bit. The time ticked on, helped by my pocketwatch clicking away loudly in the quiet cell.

"... Are you just going to keep standing there? Does the great genius not know how to treat a prisoner?" He spat again. I raised my eyebrows.

"Are you done?" I asked. Jaime stared at me, shifting as much as the chains would let him.

"Should I be?" He shot back. I sighed, and sat on the bench hanging on the side of the cell. "You need something from me?"

"Not especially," I said.

"Then why are you here?" He asked flatly, grimacing. I smiled, enjoying the minor victory.

"To thank you," I said. Jaime blinked at me.

"I'm… Sorry?"

"To thank you for saving King's Landing," I said. He fell silent. "The Mad King was going to set off wildfire all over the city. Kill everyone. Probably thinking he'd rise from the ashes as a reborn dragon. Am I right?"

Jaime was still silent, staring in some disbelief. "I… How did-?"

I snorted. "Oh come on, Lannister," I stated, "I'm Theon the Genius. I don't just make things blow up, I figure stuff out." I nodded. "And you? You're pretty easy to figure out. You were torn between oaths, and you elected to go for 'protect the weak'. And for that, the nobility of Westeros called you 'Kingslayer' when they should have called you Savior of the Kingdom."

"No one more so than your foster father," Jaime said, a hint of bitterness in his voice. I nodded.

"Ned Stark was a great man… But a flawed one." I leaned back. "That said… You never told anyone about what the Mad King was going to do. You were just resentful, passive aggressive… Banging your sister."

Jaime sighed again, looking weary. "And you figured that out too?"

"Not hard to," I said. "Also, you pushed my little brother out the window."

Jaime closed his eyes, and let out a long sigh. "There… A point to this?" He asked.

"The world fucked you over," I said. Jaime snorted.

"And so… You came here to pity me?"

"Hardly," I said, "I came here to offer you a job."

Jaime blinked. He blinked again. Then he laughed loudly.

"Hahahaha! What…? A job? You think I can be bought by gold?"

"No," I said, still patient and calm. I knew it would piss him off even more. Yes, I can be rather petty. Sue me, he pushed my little brother out the window. I'm entitled to it. "The fact of the matter is though, you did save half a million lives. And never got credit for it." I stared at him intently. "You're also kind of a dickhead."

Jaime glowered. I waited. He remained silent. The pocketwatch ticked away merrily.

Finally, the blonde knight gave in after four minutes. "And… This job…?"

"You injured a member of the Stark family. Many of them want you dead… But if we're going to build a better world, we can't repeat the mistakes of the past," I said. "So instead, the offer is simple: You serve the community you injured to make up for what you did."

"Slavery?" Jaime asked flatly. I shook my head.

"More like 'community service'. You work for us, under supervision. You help the North-Help anyone who needs it, for that matter. You pay off your… Call it… Spiritual debt. Earn back your honor."

"And why should I do that?" Jaime asked. "I'm right here, after all."

"Because somewhere inside of you is the man who chose the right thing to do over obeying the Mad King," I said. "And you're smothering him, in bitterness and resentment. The world doesn't need Jaime Lannister, the petulant asshole who sits in a cell. It needs that man. And so does your brother... And your kids."

Jaime narrowed his eyes. "I swear, if you threaten my little brother in front of me-"

"I'm not," I stated. "Fact of the matter is, he's more important than you right now. But! If he's going to be the new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, he'll be happier with his big brother alive and serving the realm as a proper knight than dead or sitting in a jail cell."

Jaime gaped at me in disbelief. "... You're joking."

"What? You think he can't do it?" I asked with a smile. "I think he can."

"You'd use him as a puppet?" Jaime growled. I shook my head.

"Hardly. He's too smart for that. Rather, we'd prefer someone who cares about the people of Westeros is in charge. And someone smart enough to keep them safe. He fits the bill. The question is," and I looked him right in the eyes, "do you want to help your little brother? Or do you want to rot in this cell, smug and difficult?"

Jaime stared at me for a long time. I stared back. The pocketwatch kept ticking away.

"... Can I see him first?" He asked. I nodded.

"Yes… But on one condition," I said. Jaime frowned.

"What is that?" He asked.

"Tell him the truth about Tysha," I said. Jaime's eyes widened in shock, and I smirked. "Genius, remember?" I looked out the bars. "GUARD!"

\- - - - - -

Sitting outside a door while two brothers mend fences is… Exactly as exciting as you might imagine. With only my pocketwatch to keep me company, it was dreary and dull.

Oh sure, there were guards. They just weren't very talkative.

I had no idea where Amarda was. Probably doing work. Important work. While I was on my "mission". I sighed and rubbed my forehead.

Right. Amarda. I needed to make this up to her somehow… And Arianne too, now that I think about it. She did show me her boobs. It's the kind of thing one should take into consideration.

It was a long, lonely hour before someone knocked on the door. I nodded to the guards, and opened the door. I rested my hand on my revolver and scanned around. Just Jaime, Tyrion, and Bronn seated around a table. The booze was flowing freely, and Tyrion looked terrible. Jaime didn't look much better, bound by chains to his waist. I nodded to the guards, and entered with their weapons covering me. They swept the room, before nodding and closing the door behind them.

So it was just me, standing in a room with Bronn, Jaime, and Tyrion. It felt a bit awkward, really.

"... So," Bronn broke the ice, "two women, and ya didn't take either of them?"

"Does everybody know that by now?" I complained. "Seriously?"

"Well, needed a bit of levity with how things were going," Bronn said. "And the little Lord ain't much for wit right now."

"Fuck off," Tyrion mumbled. Jaime's eyes were filled with pain. I nodded, and walked a bit closer.

"I see... Meera?"

The Crannogwoman pulled herself out of a couch, brushing off any lint. The three prisoners stared in shock. She saluted me.

"Ser Jaime did indeed tell the story," she said, not looking in Tyrion's direction. "And relayed the message properly."

I nodded. "Good," I said. Tyrion gave me a baleful look.

"So, when you said we'd be alone-"

"She's not going to gush your personal details to the realm," I said, "but I didn't get here by being an idiot."

Tyrion took a long, long pull of his wine. He slowly nodded.

"Only fair," he said tightly. Bronn looked amused.

"Wanna teach me how you do that, love?" Bronn asked with a grin. "Could think of all sorts of places I'd like to sneak in… Especially if you'll wear that suit."

Meera gave him a steely glare. "Don't think you'll find them," she retorted.

The Crannogwoman headed off, jumping out the nearby window. Bronn chuckled, as Jaime sighed heavily. He moved to speak, but Tyrion held his hand up. He looked intently at me.

"First of all… How did you know that?" He asked flatly. "How could you possibly…?"

"You really think I'd do business with the rest of the Realm without building up contacts?" I asked. "Without asking questions? Picking up things?"

"Varys must be green with envy right now," Tyrion mumbled. "Good look for him... " He shook his head. "Still doesn't change the fact you're asking me to betray my father…"

"That part's all up to you," I said with a shrug. I sat down at the table, still warily eyeing Bronn and Jaime. Meera was probably still around, but better to be safe than sorry. "The fact of the matter is, we have too many POWs to keep around. So we're sending them all home with you and Lord Kevan."

"An act of good will… That will demoralize the Westerlands further," Tyrion snorted. "You've learned to temper your generosity with insult. The Queen of Thorns has taught you well…"

"That she has," I said with a nod. "Besides, that many men back in the Westerlands won't do you any good. The Reach is sending troops, so is Dorne. The Riverlands are up to full strength. The North… Is coming. Your father sold Westerosan men into slavery, and your nephew murdered Lord Stark." I leaned back. "Our quarrel is with a few Lannisters… Not all of you."

"And you honestly think that I can win control over the Westerlands?" Tyrion asked blearily. "And not look like a puppet?"

"If you don't, someone else will," I said, "and do you really think that someone would do as good a job as you? You really think that someone deserves it more than you?"

"Playing on my vanity," Tyrion snorted. "When you have me over a log."

"Yes," I said with a nod. "But the greatest challenge to any statesman in Westeros… You really think you can't do it?"

Tyrion snorted. "Not a matter of if I can do it-"

"Humble, as always," Bronn snarked.

"But why," Tyrion said, shaking his head. I shrugged, and pulled my copy of Robb's proposal out of my satchel. I handed it over to Tyrion. He looked it over, tapping the table and mouthing a few of the words. He looked up at me.

"This… Is never going to work," he pronounced. "It is the stupidest, most idealistic plan I have ever seen in my entire life."

I nodded. "Probably, yeah." I tried to hide the sinking feeling in my gut. It was more than just Tyrion being a character I loved in the show-I'd met him, talked to him. I knew he was a good man. I knew he was someone I wanted to succeed.

But he had to be on the right side for me to let him.

Tyrion sighed. "You do realize I'll be working to gain more for myself, and for my side than for you, don't you? Self interest at heart. Playing the game. Winning the game. You'll still be opponents."

"Yes," I said with a nod, "but frankly, I'd prefer opponents to yell at than opponents to kill in open battle. After all, what is a peaceful society but one where everyone agrees to keep violence to a minimum?"

"A minimum, he says," muttered Jaime. Tyrion sighed.

"... I'm not just going to be Lord Paramount," he said. "You need me to act as a Hand… An advisor. Your presumptions are ridiculous. You need me."

I shrugged. "We could get someone else… I mean, no shortage of people who would want the job-"

"And would fuck it up," Tyrion snorted. "You obviously staged all this to butter me up, and treat me with a proposal of exactly what I want. A wish fulfilled. No… No, if I'm going to have a part in this mad revolution of yours, I'm where I should be-Making it come true." He tossed the proposal back at me. "I'm an advisor to your King or no deal."

"Based on what leverage?" I asked flatly.

"The fact you've done all this means I'm an asset you've invested in," Tyrion stated, "and you're not about to throw it away. So drop the games and give me what I want... What we both know you want me to do. After all… You're not going to navigate King's Landings politics. You'd go mad in a day."

I grimaced. Right, he was a political mastermind. He would know when he was being played. "... I'll talk to King Robb… But I think I can persuade him." I held out my hand. "It does mean travelling with me, you know."

"I'll try to manage," Tyrion replied, not extending his hand. "And I want one other thing."

"Yes?" I asked. Tyrion nodded to his brother.

"His… 'Community service' will be with me," Tyrion said, "as my bodyguard."

I thought about it, hard. Jaime smirked at me. I sighed.

"... Deal," I said. Tyrion took my hand, and we shook on it. And though inebriated, his eyes still shown with keen insight. He smirked at me.

"Isn't it lovely when we all get what we want?" He asked. I managed a weak smile.

"I'll be sure to tell you when it happens," I said. I rose, and checked my watch. I grimaced… And then smiled. I rummaged in my satchel. I pulled out a radio receiver and speaker, and set it on the table. Bronn and Jaime stared in disbelief.

"What is that thing?" Jaime asked. I turned it on.

"It's time for the speech," I said. "Wouldn't want you to miss it."

The radio crackled and hissed a bit, before Luwin's voice spoke over it.

" _Testing, testing, one two three… You can all hear me? … Good. Maester Luwin here, presenting His Grace, King in the North and of the Trident, Robb Stark, the First of his name."_

There was the faint sound of cheering and applause, and I heard Robb clearing his throat. Then… He spoke.

 _"The times we live in are tumultuous. These last years ... no, these last decades have seen more change and upheaval than Westeros has seen since before the arrival of the Targaryen's force of dragons upon this continent centuries ago. The rampages of the Mad King, the overweening arrogance and entitlement that drove Prince Rhaegar to abduct, abuse and slay my aunt Lyanna, the fall of the Targaryen dynasty and the rise of the Baratheon. The war with the Iron Isles, and the arrival in Winterfell of a young, underfed hostage who would one day be counted among my brothers and closest companions. That boy's genius and inventiveness that would change the way the North sees itself, and how the rest of Westeros ... the rest of the world sees us. We have gone from one of the poorest of the Seven Kingdoms to one of the wealthiest, yet we have not lost that essence, that strength that was left to us by our ancestors, by the heroes of ages long past._

 _"Twice in as many generations, this Realm, this united Westeros has been rent by civil war, the lands scoured by armies and bandits, farms burnt, merchants robbed, the flower of our finest - on all sides - scattered into the dirt. Lives lost, livelihoods ruined, brother turned against brother and long friendships sundered, and for what? What is the point of all of this? The Realm? The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros? What is that? Half a millennia ago, those words would have been meaningless: each of the Kingdoms vied against one another for domination. The Realm was a dream, a phantom, a result of Aegon Targaryen and his kin, flying across the sea and forcing the kings of Westeros to kneel ... or to burn. Seven Kingdoms he and his descendants conquered, spot-welding them together with dragonfire like a tinker welds bits of a broken pot. And like that pot, the Realm Aegon and those who followed him built was fragile, delicate, and ultimately could not last ... because it was the result of our lands being forced together by an outside force, rather than of our own destiny or choosing. The rule of the Iron Throne is over, because it no longer has the force of dragonfire to support it ... and the rest of Westeros has finally realised it. The giant, so long used to being bound, has shrugged, and discovered his chains no longer restrain him._

 _"For too long, our destiny has been held hostage, captive in the hands of whoever sits upon that cruel, ugly seat in King's Landing. For too long, we have bowed to the ghosts of dragons long dead. We cannot, we will not, allow our lands to become battlefields every time another man wishes to become king, caring nothing for those he would trample during his ascent. No, we will not allow it! We will stand, together, and speak out in one voice, no more! No more will the sons of the North, or the River, or the Reach die, resting in shallow graves, for the vanity and ego of petty kings! No longer will we be fodder for the ambitions of princes and lordlings who know nothing of our lands, our histories, our songs and our hearts! We will stand, we will march and we will fight, not for another but for ourselves, and for our children, and our children's children! We will not march for gold, or glory, or to please another, but because it is the right action, the true action! This is not a war of ambition, but of liberation and of truth! We take up this challenge gladly, we choose to go to King's Landing and to do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard! Because it is a task worthy of this people, of this place, and of this time. And I tell you that this will be hard, for we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places._

 _"This is not simply a war to decide who rules the Realm: it is a war to save it's soul."_

 _"I do not march on King's Landing to claim the Iron Throne. I march on King's Landing to shatter it… Thank you."_

The cheers and applause were so loud, we could hear it through the windows as well as the radio. I looked up, trying to ascertain what the speech had done for the three prisoners. Jaime was guarded. Bronn, smirking a bit. Tyrion… Gave me a wry glance.

"Did he write his own speech, too?" He asked. I chuckled.

"You could help him with the next one…"

"I'm probably going to have to," he lamented.

 **Omake - As Terrible as an Army With Banners, Part 3**

 _AC 300, Approaching Riverrun, The Riverlands (Before the Speech)_

The singing came first. It faded in and out on the wind, but as time went on it became clearer, growing in volume and intensity. Words could be made out, and the song carried a note of pride, triumph and humour. The cadence was quick, the voices tired, but there was an energy in both words and voice ...

 _"From three hundred miles of Wall,  
To burning Dornish sand,  
Five thousand fighting Northerners,  
The General, and the band!_

 _So step up now, you Riverman,  
You've heard the bugle blow,  
The Brigade is a'coming,  
Down the old Kingsroad!"_

Then came the _trump, trump, trump, trump_ of boots, as though a giant from the cold, distant Lands of Ever Winter had decided to take a stroll through the Riverlands. But it was no giant.

First over the rise was a man leading a horse, his helm swapped for a cloth hat, the brim wide enough to shade his face from the morning sun. He was followed by more men, officers ill used to marching on their feet, but the lightened load helped the horses keep the pace. Then behind them marched the body of the force, a column four abreast that seemed to pour over the hill and down along the road like a long grey snake, the barrels of their shouldered rifles glittering in the sun like the serpent's scales. Tired though they were, their backs were straight and their voices rose in song, and as they crested the rise they only sang louder, because in the distance they could see the towers of their destination: the ancient fortress of Riverun.

General Ryswel tore his hat from his head, raised it above his head and cried out, "See that, lads? Ahead our king and his queen stand waiting for us! Ahead our lords and captains have been betrayed, with good Northern men and women injured and slain! Yet the North remains, and the North remembers, and the North strikes back!" The men cried back, in anger and pride, and the general's heart swelled at the sound. He was proud of his men, not only for the long journey South, but the way they marched through the night by moonlight and starlight, their coats and the movement of their feet to keep them warm, and not one had fallen out of the ranks except a few who had turned their ankles on rocks they could not see in the dark. They had performed far better than he could have hoped, and though they be townsfolk, farmers, merchants or bastards (although hardly the 'scum of the earth, enlisted for drink' that Lord Theon had remarked once, in jest), he could not think of a group of nobles, North or South, who could have born the trial with more dignity or drive.

"Riverun's ahead, boys," he called out again, and waved his hat. "And I'll buy each and every motherless sons of you a drink when we get there!"

This time the cheer was almost hysterical, and the men laughed as they trudged on their aching feet, and they struck up another song, one Lord Theon had taught them back when the Brigade was simply the Winterfell Volunteer Company of Rifles …

 _So close no matter how far,  
Couldn't be much more from the heart,  
Forever trusting who we are,  
And nothing else matters!_

 _Never opened myself this way,  
Life is ours, we live it our way,  
All these words I don't just say,  
And nothing else matters!_

 _My brave boys_ , Ryswel thought as he marched, jamming his hat back on his head. _We'll show those treacherous, murderous bastards true Northern steel: forged and hammered in cold, hard discipline, and red-hot lead. Bring your pretty knights and colourful banners, Lannister: I would wager my grey-clad rifles against your red-and-gold lancers any Winter._ And he threw back his head and sang along with his men, even as he saw signs ahead of soldiers moving on the ramparts, and heard horns and trumpets sounding as people started taking note of the Brigade's arrival ...

***

Ryswel snapped his boot heels together and clenched his fist against his shoulder, a gesture that the king returned, then Robb Stark stepped forwards and embraced the general, their hands finding each others shoulders in the more traditional greeting. "Did the Old Gods issue you wings, or did the North Wind blow you south?" the king asked with a grin, giving Ryswel a shake, "We had not thought that you or your men would arrive for some days yet!"

"I must decline any praise, Your Grace," the brigadier said modestly, but failing to keep his own smile from his face. "Better to praise the harsh training regimen your father instituted, the improvements to the Kingsroad north of the Neck, even the newfound timidity of the Freys since your visit: and yet I am intensely proud of my men, and for their sake I thank you for your kind words, and promise to convey them to my soldiers, if I may."

Robb clapped him hard on both shoulders. "Indeed you may, General, indeed you may!"

He stepped back, and allowed Theon to step forward, and take a far less familiar forearm clasp. "And add mine as well," the Iron Islander noble insisted with uncharacteristic seriousness. Despite his genius, Theon had always seemed something of a fop to the older Ryswel, but it seemed the events of the past few days had sobered him up a great deal. "Your support and artillery?"

"Perhaps a day behind," he said apologetically. "Despite the new carriages and wagons you helped design, long journeys at speed are harder on wheels and hooves than on feet ... although my troops are likely looking forward to spending a day or so off theirs."

The king waved them over to the large map spread across the room's table, and gestured to the wood and metal objects being used to mark unit positions. "You may get a day to reconstitute your unit, General, but not much more: we will need to return to the offensive as soon as possible, and your soldiers will be at the forefront of the fighting."

"As they are intended, Your Grace," nodded Rysewl as he studied the map. He swept a hand across the marking indicating the Westerlands. "With the Golden Tooth taken, we can drive a spear deep into the Lion's underbelly, cutting the Usurper off almost entirely from monetary and material support. With the Reach allying themselves to us, the Vale remaining neutral and the Stormlands mired in chaos with the death of Lord Renly and the honorless behaviour of Lord Stannis, and Tywin will have to divert what strength he has to try and reopen his supply lines -"

But Robb placed his hand on the general's shoulder. "And that was part of our original plan, but new information has arisen to make it imperative that we take the Usurper down as swiftly as possible: we have learned that Tywin has reached across the Narrow Sea to purchase slave soldiers to bolster his forces ... and as colateral, has sold many of the Northerners he held captive as slaves. Our countrymen are in chains, my friend, and more will find themselves as chattel each day until we kick Joffrey Waters off the Iron Throne and into a jail cell."

 **XLX: The Man Who Once did Sell the Lion's Skin, Part 4**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, the Red Keep  
_  
 **Petyr  
**

"I have always thought these were lovely chambers," observed Lord Baelish as he looked about the Tower of the Hand, his heavily embroidered tunic the height of fashion, his manicure, goatee and hair imaculate, the dagger by his side chased in gold and precious stones. "I must say, the red and gold wall hangings are far more appealing than the wolf furs and old maps the previous Hand decorated the rooms with -"

"Do you take me for a fool, Baelish?" asked Tywin as he gazed out of the window overlooking the city below.

Petyr spread his hands. "I am quite sure I do not know -"

"The wedding, man, the Others-cursed wedding!" The Hand rounded on the smaller man and strode forward, causing Baelish to step back hurriedly, his smug expression cracking slightly to reveal fear beneath. Tywin tossed a bundle of papers at him, and the Master of Coin scrambled to catch it, then scanned the print. It was the front page of the _Westeros Despoiler_ , and the banner read, 'Royals Celebrate Wedding With Victory!', a large photo of Robb Stark and Margaery Tyrell standing side by side, each in torn finery, their faces streaked in dirt but the revolvers in their hands steady.

Tywin took a deep breath, visibly suppressing his rage, a rarity for a man so controlled. "I am a practical man. I understand that occasionally distasteful actions must be taken for the greater good of the Dynasty and the Realm. I am not upset that you sent assassins after the Young Wolf and his bitch. I am also not upset that you attacked them during their wedding: such superstitions are for lesser folk. I am, however, _furious_ that you were incompetent enough to not only fail, but to endanger two members of my own family along with the rest!" His green eyes blazing, Twyin turned away and back to the window. "So, not only do the rebels have a propaganda coup, not only do they have my brother and youngest son in their custody to be used as hostages, but we are the laughingstock of the Realm for a bungled, botched assassination attempt! Many things, Lord Baelish, can be forgiven when linked with success, but nothing is more shameful than that which is paired with failure."

Baelish's mind whirred as he fought down panic and forced himself to spin the facts, as always, to his advantage.

"But my lord Hand, I did not send any assassins," he lied smoothly, regaining his composure. "I assure you, had I done so, they would have been not only a great deal more competent, but far more tasteful than simply ... attacking the wedding party 'guns blazing,'" he quoted the text of the article. "Indeed, I would not have sent any assassins at all without your approval: after all, I am the Master of Coin, not of Whispers." When Tywin didn't respond, he took that as a signal to continue. "I may, however, have a possible solution to the mystery of the true hand behind this ... affair.

" Tywin glanced over, and Baelish suppressed the desire to rub his hands together. "I fear, my lord, that I had a conversation some time ago with His Grace, your grandson. The King inquired as to the ... mechanics of securing the ... removal ... of certain individuals ... We were, of course, speaking hypothetically, but I fear he may have taken the conversation seriously and acted on his own initiative ..."

As he spun his tale, the Hand's face grew darker in rage, but that emotion was not directed at Baelish, and Littlefinger crowed inside as he managed, once again, to turn the tables of fate in his favour.

"And he gained access to those resources, did he?" Tywin snarled. Petyr nodded.

"It is conceivable... After all, I do believe he tried to employ an assassin against Bran Stark as he lay dying," he said. Tywin's pale eyebrows rose.

"Indeed...?"

"I have little to go on, my Lord," Petyr said smoothly, "as you know, Ned Stark looked into the matter as well. I aided him, as an attack on the Lord Paramount's son is a dangerous thing indeed. That said, the assassin in question was seen in one of the taverns the Royal Party passed on their way back home, before Ned Stark took up his post as Hand." The Master of the Coin shrugged, his brow creased in concern. "It could be mere coincidence, of course..."

"But you believe it may have been Joffrey there, too?" Tywin growled. Petyr nodded.

"The king was always trying to impress his father," he said. "Reportedly, the late King Robert spoke of it being a greater mercy to kill Lord Bran than let him live as a cripple. The conversation was quite... Fierce after that, according to your daughter the queen. However, given King Joffrey's occasionally... Odd behavior... That thirst to prove himself to his father's memory..."

Tywin's eyes narrowed... But the right wheels were turning in his head. The Hand of the King turned to look at the map of Westeros-Ironically enough, one manufactured in the North by the Surveyor's Guild.

"This entire affair... This whole war... Brought on by a foolish, foolish child," Tywin muttered, his ring covered fingers gripping the back of a chair tightly. Petyr nodded slowly.

"Youth is meant to be kept restrained... Until experience brings wisdom," Petyr simpered.

"Which leaves us with _five_ kingdoms in open revolt... And our options _few,"_ Tywin growled. Petyr perked up.

"My Lord... There may be another solution," Petyr suggested. Tywin looked back and raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"Oh? Do you _really_ think you can fix _this_ with your whorehouses, Baelish?" Tywin sneered. "Do you think that after numerous assassins tried to gun down the _leaders_ of so many kingdoms and great houses, after his _mother_ was wounded, that Robb Stark is going to listen to a damn word we have to say?!" He slammed his hands down on the desk, and glared death into the Mockingbird's eyes.

"They are calling me _The Slaver,_ Baelish! And even destroying every newspaper in the realm, the news is still getting out!"

"Desperate circumstances, my Lord, to preserve the proper order," Petyr spoke quickly, "to oppose rebellion-"

"And now those circumstances have rendered us _impotent,"_ Tywin snarled. "Weak! Helpless-!"

"There is an alternative!" Petyr said quickly, afraid that the old Lion would seize him physically. "Joffrey ordered this... Joffrey caused all this... You know it. I know it. The realm knows it... But you have another grandson. Younger, more easily molded... One whom even the Starks do not wish to harm," Petyr emphasized, pulling up a paper and pointing to a relevant passage. "It was the King, after all, who had Ned Stark's head removed!"

"And to you propose that I sacrifice _my own grandson_ to the wolves?" Tywin growled.

"A kingly sacrifice!" Petyr tried. "A Lannister and Baratheon, laying down his life! Going to the Wall, for the peace of the Kingdoms! King Tommen to rule! A truce-A treaty!"

Tywin was silent. Petyr tried again.

"Long enough... Long enough to gain their trust. To gain access to their weapons... I have procured technology sold to Braavos, have I not? The North knows me, Caitlyn Stark still trusts me. She can rein in the Young Wolf, and the Squid... After all. Winter _is_ coming. This war has taxed the North as badly as us."

"It is a desperate, _slim_ chance, Littlefinger," Tywin ground out. Petyr nodded, still holding the newspaper up like a shield.

"It is, My Lord Hand... But even with the Unsullied, do you think we can win against all these kingdoms united against us?" He shook his head. "Not now... Not now... But soon. Time enough... And your dynasty remains on the Iron Throne."

Tywin glared at Petyr... And slowly nodded.

"It is... Possible," he said slowly, despising the words as they came out of his mouth. "But we still need leverage... How many more Unsullied can you gain for us, Baelish? And what of the Vale?"

"Tens of thousands, my Lord Hand," Petyr said confidently. "As for the Vale... As I lack the authority as a Lord Paramount-"

"I grant you all rights as a Lord Paramount," Tywin said. "Marry the mad woman at the Eeyrie. Get us everything you can. I know you have more resources, Baelish. Things you hold back-I am not as trusting as Ned Stark! You will turn over _all_ such resources to me..." He narrowed his eyes, "or you can say goodbye to your neck. Is that understood?"

Petyr smiled silkily, and nodded. "Of course, my Lord Hand," he said.

Tywin took deep breaths. He looked back at the window. "Call the Small Council, and make sure that idiot _grandson_ of mine is there first!"

Petyr Baelish smiled and bowed. "Of course, My Lord Hand," he said. He smoothly departed, his expensive robes swishing. He opened the door, and departed, letting the little serving girl Tywin let hang around him through. She bumped into him, apologized, and he waved it off with an affable smile before he walked off.

It was amusing, he reflected, as he walked down the steps to the main Keep-The Lord Lannister, the Old Cold Lion, keeping a young girl close like a puppy. A pet... A weakness?

He'd have to find out later... He had much to do...

He checked his expensive dagger, patting it reassuringly... And frowned.

Where did it go?

 **\- - - - - -**

 **Tywin**

Tywin heard faint footsteps as someone familiar entered, and he sighed.

"That had better be water," he growled as he turned. The Northern serving girl was there, carrying a platter with water, bread and fruit. She set it down politely, and folded her hands over her lower stomach. Tywin frowned. "Well? What is it?"

"My Lord," she asked carefully, "I have heard... That King Robb's wedding was attacked by assassins."

Tywin sighed, and took the newspapers into his arms. The most prominent headline was " **STEEL WEDDING: ASSASSINS ATTACK KING ROBB AND QUEEN MARGAERY**." He shoved the pile into a cabinet, and shut it closed.

"Yes," Tywin said, "they did."

"... Did you order it, My Lord Hand?" Asked the girl, standing a bit closer. Tywin turned and glared at her.

"Now why the hell would I do something so foolish?" He asked. The girl shrugged again, looking non-chalant.

"They are your enemies... Cut off the head, the body dies..."

"That's how it _used_ to work," Tywin growled. "That's how it _should..."_ He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "But I have my doubts that would have worked at all," he admitted, turning and looking out the window. He rested his hands on the balcony, glaring out over the city. The helpless, stinking city. "War... War was simple, once," he said.

"Was it?" The girl asked. Tywin snorted.

"Noble houses fight eachother, when necessary. Over offenses and insult. It was ridiculous, insane... Dictated by the whims of kings and lords... Now?" He sighed. "Now... The North has lifted it's smallfolk up. Made them... _Part_ of the decision making. Commoners can speak with the same voice as kings in these rags, and one voice..." He shook his head. "The Starks have signed the death warrant for the nobility... If they win this war, eventually... All of us, Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons... We'll be destroyed. Swallowed up by the commoners..."

"The commoners don't care about the petty squabbles between nobles, true," the girl spoke, now very, very close. "But they do care about honor. They do care about justice..."

"Oh really?" Tywin sneered. "Is that so?" He still didn't look at the girl, not trusting himself to see her eyes. He could only imagine the pity in them right now...

"When they see Ned Stark killed... They see a man who treated them as equals," the girl continued, "as members of a nation, not just servants. He _earned_ their loyalty... He worked for them tirelessly, to make them all feel united. No matter if they were lords, or knights, or mechanics... Or pig farmers. We were one nation... One people, together. And when they saw him die, declared a traitor... When he did nothing wrong... We went _mad_ together."

Tywin frowned deeper. "Mad...?"

He felt the girl leap up on his back. He gasped, trying to remove her-But a burning, ripping pain across his throat silenced him. He stumbled as she fell off, and he tried to turn around. He grasped the balcony desperately, blood gushing down the front of his tunic. He gaped in pain and horror at the girl, who pulled off her headdress. A flash of recognition hit him.

"For my father," Arya Stark whispered, before she grasped his boot and shoved it up. He toppled, he fell... And the world went black before he hit the ground.

\- - - - -

 **Arya  
**  
Her heart was pounding as she rushed to the door. She had to get out of here quickly-She had to run-

The door opened, the lock being smashed in. Arya stopped short as a tall, ragged knight stood before her. She stared up at the Hound in fear, trying to calm herself. She'd tossed the knife after Tywin, she wasn't stupid enough to hold it-But like this...!

The Hound stared at her for a moment, before he pulled out some rags. "Wrap these around your head, and give me those," he said. "They're covered in blood."

Arya stared, confused. The Hound glared.

"You want to be caught? Do it! And start crying!"

She took the rags and wrapped them around her head. The Hound stuffed the bloody wraps into his armor... And then smacked her. She fell to the floor, and cried out. He quickly grabbed the platter, and shoved it into her hands.

" _I said cry,"_ he hissed, as he dragged her out. Arya managed to sniffle, and got out some tears as she sat with her back against the wall. The bread and water fell all over the floor, making a mess. Footsteps echoed off the walls, and servants rushed up.

"What happened-?!" One servant gasped.

"Lord Tywin fell-!"

"He fell from his window-!"

"The girl found the door locked," the Hound growled. "I busted it open... Nothing doing..."

"Oh Gods... He... He's...!" Arya managed to sob, covering her face. "Oh GODS...!"

"Someone shut her up!" Sandor Clegane snarled, shoving her forward. Many of the servant girls parted, as she _was_ the favored servant of the Hand of the King. But familiar arms encircled her, and Arya looked up to see Sansa's face.

"It's all right dear, it's all right," Sansa murmured, hugging her tightly. Arya stiffened, but returned the embrace. She trembled. "It's all right..."

"I... I don't know what happened," Arya sniffled, "I don't know... Why did he...?"

"It's all right," Sansa soothed, "it's all right... It's just a tragic, horrible accident... That's all..."

Arya buried her face in Sansa's chest, sniffled, cried... But she couldn't help the smile on her face.

And as she felt Sansa's face touch her head, she swore she could feel her sister smile too.


	21. XLXI, XLXII,LXIII, LXIV, and Omakes

**Mirror Notes:** I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. I didn't realise how many words I compiled for this, or the last chapter. I promise to try not to do it again.

 **XLXI: Perspective Check**

 _AC 300, Riverrun, the Riverlands  
_  
 **Theon**

"YOU DID WHAT?!"

You know, it was impressive how despite the bullet wound to her neck, the broken ankle, and a few other injuries, my mother could still yell very, very loudly. Enough to wake up everyone else in the hospital wing. I think the guy in the coma even twitched.

Robb sighed, and held Catelyn's hand as he sat at her side. I stayed behind him, avoiding the glare on her face.

"The fact is, mother... Many in the Westerlands are outright defecting to us. I'm not going to just roll over them all and burn their lands-"

"Accepting _Tyrion Lannister_ into your councils!" She seethed. "Letting _Jaime Lannister accompany him!"_

"Under guard, and bound at all times," Robb went on. He raised his eyebrows. "And his say... Will be greatly determined based on how he performs the next mission."

"Who's ridiculous idea was it?" She demanded. Robb coughed.

"His own..."

I relaxed. Robb then sighed.

"And Theon's."

" _Robb!"_ I hissed. Catelyn turned a baleful glare on me, and I held my hands up. "Now hang on a second, Mother-"

"You'd let that, that perverted dwarf into councils with your _brother?!"_

"Mom! If we don't want this war to continue into bloody rebellion and revolution, we _need_ the Westerlands!" I insisted. "Isn't bringing this conflict to a close as bloodlessly as possible a _good_ thing?"

"And he _did_ warn us of the assassination attempt," Robb pointed out. Catelyn seethed.

"That doesn't mean _letting him have a say!_ Bad enough you're going to tear down the Iron Throne-" She glared at me, "can't _imagine_ who gave you _that idea-!"_

"It was _my_ idea," Robb insisted. He grasped her hands in his gloved ones, and looked intently into her eyes. "Mother... We can't just burn everything to the ground. We need to build things back up."

Catelyn made a face. "Even with the strength we have... A knife between the ribs will kill just as surely as a sword through your chest."

"Actually, with the new ironwood body armor I pulled together, that's very..." I trailed off as Robb and my mother glared. "Right. Shutting up."

Catelyn sighed. She glared over at the patients and nurses, who were studiously going about their business. "Fine," she murmured. "But I will choose who keeps an eye on them."

"Of course," Robb said with a nod. He rose and kissed his mother's cheek. "Don't worry Mother... I'm the King. I can handle it," he gave her a cocky smile. She rolled her eyes, but held him bent over long enough to return the kiss.

"All right... And your fair wife? How is she?" She asked.

Robb flushed, but managed a serious looking expression. "She... Is very happy," he said.

"Her _limp_ says that well enough," I muttered. Robb smacked my shoulder, and I gripped it with a wince. "Owww!"

Catelyn thought had a broad smile. "I'm glad," she said. She sighed. "Just... Be safe, son."

"I will be," Robb said. "I promise..."

They hugged once more, and Robb turned to head out. Brienne, who had been standing at the door this whole time, smoothly followed him out. I made to leave myself...

"Theon..."

I paused, and turned around. Catelyn was glaring at me.

Naturally, I tried to disarm her anger the way I usually tried.

"You look like you did when the chicks escaped the egg heaters," I said. Catelyn's lip twitched, just a bit.

"There were yellow chicks all over the courtyard," she reminisced. "It was like they'd fallen from the sky..."

"A few did," I said with a shrug. "Impressed they survived. The gas bottle blew up in just the right way..."

She motioned me close to her. I complied, and sat down next to her. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and sighed.

"Child... You have always bee reckless, and mad," she said. "I don't know where you got all this from... All..." She waved her hand, and I saw the bottle of anti-biotics, medical alcohol, and other medicines on her side table. "It almost seems like the Gods touched you... Imbued you with the knowledge of the Smith... And the Stranger."

I was silent. Frankly, I didn't know myself. Maybe I was Theon Greyjoy, just with the memories of some mad bored genius downloaded into my mind by some errant God. Maybe I was... That other man, stuck here in Theon's body.

"But despite all that power up here," she said, poking my forehead, "I was always impressed... And exasperated more, by what you have here." She poked me in the chest, and I flushed.

"I... I didn't-"

"You're so kind, and so trusting," she sighed. "You want to give so many people a second chance... Let them prove they can be good. It's worked..." She narrowed her eyes. "But it's mostly been pure luck. I hope you know that."

"I..." I sighed. "Yeah..."

Catelyn smiled a bit wanly. Proud and yet exasperated. "And that's the same reason you want to give the Lannisters a second chance. You want to save _everyone."  
_  
I rubbed my mouth, and sighed. "... I knew I was never going to do that," I admitted. "But... I have to try, Mom. I _have_ to..."

"And would you offer the same chance to Joffrey Waters?" Catelyn asked. I stared at her, and worked my jaw.

"I..."

"You _want_ to, don't you?" Catelyn asked, almost accusatory. I sighed.

"I _really_ don't want to... But... Yeah. Part of me does."

Yes, I'd had to suffer his company. His insults. His idiocy. But I'd also seen how he'd looked at his father, so desperate for attention and acceptance. There was a moment of humanity in there. I hated him, yes... But part of me still whispered "Maybe he's not too far gone."

"Just don't let your heart overwhelm your mind," she said gently. "It does you credit... But a hesitation... And you'll die." She hugged me. "And I don't want you to die..."

I hugged her back, sighing softly. "I don't want to die either," I admitted. "... Especially not on this dangerous mission I'm about to go on."

Catelyn sighed. "Then please... Don't," she murmured.

I had hoped to end this thread on 100 threadmarks-Good round number, 100. But seems like I'll have to do things a piece at a time. Damn...

 **XLXII: Accidents and Apologies**

 _Riverrun, The Riverlands, AC 300  
_  
 **Theon**

Sweat seemed to be drooling down my forehead, making me thankful for my goggles. The radio transceiver in front of me was whining, the signal getting through and filling my labspace. I licked my lips, and adjusted the toggles on my makeshift control board.

While microchips and even transisters were a long way off, I could still make use of the concept to build very simple "gates" for the vacuum tubes. It gave me a few more options than simple on or off, and it made the system a bit more efficient.

I turned the knob, and the whine grew louder. I took a deep breath.

"Testing, testing, one, two, three," I spoke into the microphone. I winced at the feedback, and stepped back a few steps. "Damnit... Testing! Testing, one two three!"

Still the transceiver gave me nothing but static, brightly glowing vacuum tubes burning in my vision. I gritted my teeth, and adjusted the gain.

"Testing! Testing! Testing, one, two-!"

The vacuum tube burst with a loud pop, and fire burned across my radio. I cursed and rushed over for my fire extinguisher-Just a small tank of water and a pump. I hurriedly pumped the water onto the table, cursing the whole time as I killed the flames.

"Damnit! Fuck! Shit! Bollocks! Crap!" I hissed at the sparks shooting from the device. "A load of worthless circuits and bullshit soldering-!"

"Bad time?"

I looked to the door. Arianne Martell was standing there, looking uncharacteristically solemn. I sighed, and grabbed a rag to wipe my forehead.

"No... Not at all... Thought I put a sign on the door saying 'keep out'," I observed. Arianne smiled softly, closing the door behind me.

"You did. But I am a Princess, am I not?" She asked.

"Doesn't mean you're fireproof," I pointed out. "Don't think there's enough Targaryan in you for that."

Arianne chuckled softly. I pulled on some gloves I'd treated with the local rubber equivalent-It was pretty greasy and gross, but it kept me from getting electrocuted. I picked up the forlorn remains of my transceiver, and sighed.

"Not the result you were hoping for?" Arianne asked. I nodded glumly.

"Yeah... I've been trying to shrink the transceivers enough for individuals to carry them... But they keep um... Melting," I said succinctly. I sighed and put the ruined transceiver on a pile of similar disasters. "I just don't have the materials to make them any _smaller_ yet."

"The radios, correct?" Arianne asked. I nodded.

"Yeah."

"But I've seen men in your camp using a few bits of wire and metal to hear that," Arianne said, confused. I chuckled.

"Well, they can _catch_ the signal with that. But they can't send anything back," I explained. "Two way communication is the ideal situation, and making it small and light is the goal..." I shrugged and pulled my gloves off. Arianne was admirably not making a face at the smells in the laboratory-It was probably pretty rank. "Something I can do for you?" I asked.

"I came to apologize," Arianne said, looking firmly into my eyes like she'd been drilled into it from birth. She probably had been. "My uncle... Suggested that my actions would be seen as..."

"Suspicious?" I asked. Arianne shrugged.

"As you say..."

"He didn't say I favored men, did he?" I asked, opening up the windows. Arianne shook her head, biting back a wry smile.

"No... After all, you stare at my breasts far too much to be a swordswallower."

"Yeah," I said with a nod. I looked for a chair that I hadn't burned or broken apart yet... And sighed as I saw the remains of some furniture lying in a vat of various hydrocarbon products I'd been experimenting with. "Damnit...!" I pulled the pieces out, gloves back on, and laid them on a workbench. "I uh... We can move somewhere else-"

"This is your place though," Arianne said carefully, "your domain. Where you are strongest..."

"Giving me an advantage?" I asked. Arianne chuckled.

"As far as you know, yes."

"You're admitting it?" I asked in some disbelief. Arianne nodded.

"Another suggestion of my uncle... He thinks you're about the least romantic person alive."

"Oh, hey!" I protested, feeling insulted. "I do okay!"

Arianne gave me the sexiest incredulous look I'd ever seen. I glanced out at the window, and coughed.

"Okay... I just... Um... It's not the kind of thing I really focus on," I said with a shrug.

"All this work... And you never stop to enjoy the world?" Arianne asked softly. I glanced at her.

"I do...! I mean, I try to... The last social gathering was not a disaster because of me," I insisted. Arianne nodded slowly.

"But you don't know how to be... Normal," she said. I shrugged, half-heartedly, and looked out the window again. The First Army was running through drills on the barn-Specifically, the Breachers. Grappling hooks, repeating rifles, flashbangs, small explosives, goggles and masks allowed them to get over walls and seize fortified positions. These Breachers had been with me at Golden Tooth, and were now training others in their ways. It made me smile a bit at all that going on.

"What's normal?" I asked. "Normal is in flux."

"As of late, yes," Arianne agreed, moving closer. "Thanks to you... You're defining it for the world. Or trying to."

"Sort of," I admitted again, feeling uncomfortable. The Dornish Princess sidled up to me, not touching but able to if she wished. Or if I wished, if I could read her facial expression accurately.

"And so you keep yourself here... Even outside," Arianne concluded, gesturing to the lab. "Even from your friends and family... Why?"

"... Bad childhood," I said dryly. Arianne nodded, and looked out as well. I sighed. "It's complicated..."

"Complicated enough you won't tell me yet," Arianne said. I nodded. She smiled. "Good."

"Good?" I asked flatly. Arianne shrugged again, leaning over a bit to show off her cleavage. I tried to ignore it.

"Most men I desire give up in no time," Arianne spoke, "and many are not worth the effort." She glanced at me, but I tried to give nothing away. "You do not approve?"

"I appreciate everybody has their own route to what they want," I said diplomatically. "I prefer honesty though... With people who want to be close to me."

"But does anyone have simply one motive?" Arianne countered, smiling wryly. "I could tell you I am interested in you for power, and it would be true. To strengthen the bonds between our kingdoms, given we both know how this war is going to end. For my own ambition and for your benefit... But you don't want just that, do you?"

"Nope," I said, "I'd prefer love."

Arianne laughed. "As the sole motivator? You'll be waiting for a long, long time."

"Not the _sole_ motivation," I said quickly, shaking my head. "But I'd... Ya know... Appreciate it. It keeps both parties honest. It makes it less about the material, more about the spiritual..."

"A philosopher as well as a scientist," Arianne observed. She giggled. "And a romantic to boot! Such hidden depths..." She leaned forward and smiled. "What I would give... To know them," she purred.

"How about an end to back aches?" I asked. The Dorne Princess blinked.

"Ah?"

"I've invented something called the brassiere," I said. "Keeps your bosom from bouncing around. Most of the female warriors use them-A lot of other women in the North too..."

She stared, and then chuckled again. "Is that a compliment as well as a dodge?"

"Just making conversation," I said. I shrugged. "Besides... You forgot the most obvious thing you had to do to become closer to me."

Arianne hummed. She chuckled. "Tell you I love you?"

"Wouldn't believe it," I said. "Try again?"

Arianne thought about it for a while, rubbing her chin. She glanced at me with a hint of disbelief... But shrugged.

"How do I get closer to you?" She asked.

"Asking is a good start," I said, smiling back slightly. I turned to one of the workbenches and tapped the ironwood. I nodded-It had dried very quickly. "Good..."

"What are you doing?" Arianne asked, curious.

"I've been using ironwood for a base for the radio transceivers," I said, pulling out a saw. "I've been trying to treat them with various chemicals to make them able to absorb more heat..." I locked down the piece of wood, and pushed down my goggles. I started to saw... Or at least, tried to. "Nngh... This batch though fell into the wrong vat!"

I pulled harder, but the saw stubbornly refused to cut. I growled, and put the saw aside. "Can you hand me the hatchet?"

Arianne stared at me in silence... But a moment later, she was holding the hatchet out to me. I took it with a thankful smile. "Thanks... Back up," i said. She did so, and I raised the hatchet up. I brought it down on the wood block, flicking my wrist.

The flick probably saved my life, because the axehead bounced off the wood and spun over my head. I yelped, ducking to avoid a nasty haircut as the hatchet sailed out the window. Arianne watched in shock, holding her chest as she panted in fear.

"Wha... How... Are you all right?" She asked. I very slowly looked over at the wooden block. There was no mark in the grain... I smiled.

"Yes... Hey! Want to help with an experiment?" I asked.

A few minutes later, at the firing range we'd set up in a section of Riverrun, I finished securing the block to a target pig carcass. I gave the ropes a good tug, checking the resistance. It was a little fiddly, and just a hunch... But I had to try it. Seeing everything was ready, I turned and eagerly jogged back. A small wall of sandbags had been raised, and Arianne was sitting behind it with her own pair of goggles.

"Lord Theon, can you please tell me what's going on?" She asked. I nodded as I crouched down, and held up my trust revolver.

"Easier to show you," I said. "Cover your ears!"

She did so, and I cleared my throat. "Fire! Fire! Fire!" I bellowed, warning away anyone in hearing distance... Before I pulled the trigger.

 _BANG!  
_  
The pig carcass shifted a bit from the impact. I stood up, and rushed up to the target. The princess followed right behind. I untied the ropes keeping the treated ironwood to the pig, and pulled it away. I grinned, half in triumph, the other half in disbelief. The bullet hadn't gone through, but it had certainly hit-The spiderweb like impact on the block proved it.

"... You can explain this at any time," Arianne said, sounding a bit annoyed. I laughed, and held up the block.

"Gonna take some more tests... But I think I just made my plan for saving Sansa a _lot_ easier..." I grinned. "Princess Arianne, you are the first witness to the birth of the bullet-proof vest... Well, bullet resistant, but _proof_ sounds a lot better, don't you think?"

 **Omake - Keep It Simple, Stupid!**

 _Maidenpool, 300 AC_

Theon leaned back in his chair as he glared at the map stretched across the table, weighted down by two daggers, a revolver and an ink well. He rubbed his knuckles against the stubble on his chin. "I don't know ... it seems too ..."

Robb's army had advanced to Harranhal, driving out the Lannister stragglers, mostly sellswords and deserters before pausing to regroup for the drive to King's Landing. Meanwhile, Theon's little group had gathered in Maidenpool to rendevous with the Seawolf, which would transport his assault team on his mission to rescue Sansa and Arya from the Red Keep. Unfortunately, Theon's original plan, of which he was quite proud, had proven ... unpopular among the more practiced schemers.

"Simple?" asked Tyrion, sipping at his wine glass, Jaime standing over his shoulder. Also sitting around the table were Meera Reed, Amarda, Bronn and Ramsay, who was busy cleaning his fingernails with what looked like a flensing knife, "Straightforward? Easy to comprehend and, dare I say, idiot proof?" The short, stumpy Lord Paramount Presumptive waved his goblet around. "Your original plan was an absolute disaster that had absolutely no chance of working. The issue, young Greyjoy, is that your first instinct when presented with a problem is to add complexity, like one of your machines: lots of jigity bits and doodads and gears, switches and pulleys."

He raised an eyebrow. "It may have something to do with your brilliance in mechanical areas: you have a strong reluctance to admit that you are wrong. Whenever you arrive at a new problem, instead of returning to first principals and starting again, you simply add another layer of complexity, more gadgets, more guesswork and more chances. Your original plan relied on being able to predict not only the results of your actions, but that of those you encounter, and if any one of those factors failed, the entire plan would fall apart."

Tyrion tossed his goblet back over his shoulder, and Jaime smoothly caught it out of the air, without his expression flickering. "Far simpler to simply bribe the guards who will be bribed and knife the ones who won't."

"Hey, my plans before worked out just fine! Like at Golden Tooth, and the Woods-" Theon insisted, feeling compelled to defend his brilliance.

"Yeah, but that's because you had to work with what you had, _and_ you had people to keep you _focused_. Your genius can run away with you if you don't have someone to ground you. One of those flamewolfs is great-Using it to light off fireworks to send a signal to made a mechanical man jerk off poison into the king's dinner isn't."

Theon's eyes unfocused for a moment. "... Actually I wouldn't need fireworks to make such a signal -"

"My Lord? You're proving his point. Please stop."

"Yes Amarda ..."

"The point," Tyrion said, accepting a now full glass from Jaime, who was clearly well experienced at the duty after years of serving King Robert, "is that when planning such an operation, complexity is the enemy. The more ... whats the phrase? 'Moving parts?' The more moving parts a plan has, the more ... " he snapped his fingers twice. "Points of failure, that's it! A good planner has to be ruthless in removing as many of these points as possible, to give the plan the absolute best chance to succeed."

"In other words," concluded Theon, rubbing his hands through his sandy hair, "'Keep It Simple, Stupid.'"

"As your guest, I would be loath to use such blunt terms, but that's essentially the point," conceded Tyrion.

Before the discussion could continue, there was a knock at the door. Before Theon could blink, Ramsay and Meera were standing by the door, Meera's carbine and Ramsay's double barreled pistol were at the ready. _In Westeros, there's no such thing as too paranoid ... just not paranoid enough._ At Theon's nod, they opened the door, and a messenger stepped in, pointedly ignoring the brandished weapons. "My lords, my lady, mistress ... a message for you, Lord Greyjoy, from King Robb." He handed over a leather wrapped packet. His mission complete, he bowed his way out.

Curious and a little worried, Theon unbound the thongs sealing the packet, then unfolded it to reveal the letter held within. His eyes scanned over the relatively short message, paused, then read it again, more carefully. Then he did so a third time, and sighed, rubbing at his eyes with his thumb.

"Well? Don't keep us in suspense, lad," insisted Tyrion, taking another deep draft of wine. "Surely it can't be all that earth-shattering."

"Not for me, Lord Tyrion," Theon said rather formally, his voice unusually soft. He shook his head, then stood up. "My friends, I need to speak to the Lannisters alone."

Of course, Ramsay and Meera were hard to convince, and even Bronn thought it was a bad idea, but within a few moments the door closed again, leaving only three men in the room: a genius, a knight and a dwarf. "I must say, I've heard of your flare for the dramatic, but I never thought I'd see as clear an indication that you should be writing Bravossi plays," snarked Tyrion, but his voice held an edge of concern.

"The letter was in King Robb's own hand," Theon said. "He wrote it in response to reliable information he had moments before received from King's Landing." Only a trained observer would have picked up on the way Jaime's eyes and mouth tightened. "The Hand of the King ... Lord Tywin ... fell from the window of his apartments in the Tower of the Hand." Tyrion's hand froze, his goblet at his lips. "He was dead when he hit the flagstones below."

Jaime's only response was to tighten his grip on the hilt of his sword, but his green eyes were surprisingly expressive as one of the few certain things in his world vanished. The Lord of the Westerlands, whether one admired or loathed him, had been a power in Westeros for decades. Certainly, Jaime had never imagined him dying, except perhaps in the midst of battle.

"Well," said Tyrion after a moment, draining his goblet and putting it carefully on the table. "I suppose that simplifies certain matters, doesn't it?"

The room was silent for a moment.

"Seven fucking hells," snarled Jaime, grabbing his brother's shoulder and hauling him about to face him. "Our father is _dead_ , and all you can do is _joke_?"

Tyrion brushed Jaime's hand off. "To be perfectly honest, I'm feeling a lot _more_ than I had imagined, the last thousand times I've fantasized about our father's demise! The man hated me, blamed me for our mother's death, humiliated me at every turn, and the only reason he didn't drown me at birth was the fact that I was his blood, and nothing is - was - more important to our father than the _dynasty_. How would it look to the other Houses if he was seen slaying his own kin?" The little man took a deep breath. "Jaime, he wasn't much of a father to me, but he was my father. I'll grieve in my own time, but right now, we need to focus on how this changes things!"

Jaime's nostrils flared, and he spun about, clenching his fist as he fought to get himself back under control. As he did so, Tyrion reached for the wine jug, but almost fumbled it. He paused, then tried again, this time without as much shaking. "Lord Greyjoy, I wish to apologise if I seem -"

Theon reached over and took the jug, pouring the wine himself. "I feel I'm something of an authority on the subject of fathers: I've lost two. One was the finest man I've ever met, who lived by honour, and died by duty. The other was a raving, murderous maniac of a pirate who held nothing but contempt for me. I mourn them both, though in different ways." I put down the wine.

The room was silent for a few moments, before Jaime spoke. "Thank you, Theon, for clearing the room."

Theon shrugged. "I imagined you'd prefer to hear the news in private, before anyone else."

"Thank you," echoed Tyrion. "But the truth of the matter is that this does change things. We need to bring the others back, and get to work."

A few minutes later, the room was full again, and more wine poured. The mood was fragile, with more than a few glances at the brothers, but Theon rapped his knuckles on the table. "So, the Hand is fallen. 'King' Joffrey now sits on the throne without Tywin's guidance: how does this effect the war?"

"It certainly throws my dear nephew into the shitter," observed Tyrion. No one looked at the boy king's real father at that moment. "Presumably Cersei will attempt to take over, although cooler heads may prevail. Of course, Joffrey may decide to simply rule by decree, dispensing with a Hand's advice ... which would be both good news and bad for King Robb."

Jaime nodded. "'The best swordsman doesn't fear the second best, he fears the worst,'" he quoted the ancient proverb. "Joffrey is ... unpredictable."

"To an extent, although if one simply assumes that one's opponent is a spoilt, arrogant, egotistical child with a penchant for petty cruelty and a crippling fear of actual danger, despite loud bravado, predicting him becomes somewhat easier," countered Tyrion, and no one spoke up to disagree. "On a more personal note, this simplifies my own situation remarkably - which was my original point," he glanced back at Jaime, then over at Theon. "Yesterday, I was the heir to Casterly Rock, rebelling against my father in the service of a rebellious would-be king. Today, I'm the rightful claimant to the seat, allied to a royal house of ancient honour and prestige, calling for all loyal Westerlanders to pledge their service. By a strict reading of the law, the conflict between the North and the Westerlands is hearby over: congratulations, you won the war." There was no hint of defeat in Tyrion's voice, leaving Theon to complete the idea: _now you have to win the peace, which is going to be a lot harder_.

"Still, Joffrey has some competant advisors left, and depending on how well he listens to them, things may actually get harder without Tywin's influance ..."

The group talked long into the night and before long called for more food and wine. It was not a short, or simple discussion.

A few hours before dawn, Theon slipped into his blankets, exhausted and more than a little tipsy. He was hoping for a long rest on a soft mattress under warm blankets.

He was not, however, expecting to discover his bed already occupied, and he froze for a moment as a set of long, smooth limbs wrapped themselves around him. "What the fuc-"

"Thought you'd forget about me, eh, husband? Your pretty kneeler girls might be able to distract you, but I'm the one you stole, fair and square!"

Swearing loudly, Theon scrambled out of bed, and lunged for the lamp. Turning up the flame, he turned around to see a vaguely familiar form reclining on his bed, blankets tossed back to reveal a dark haired woman, with smallish breasts and athletic body, trim from exercise and training. It took him a moment to place her pretty face and Wildling accent.

"Osha?" Then her words hit him. " _Husband_?"

 _Seven hells, I'm not drunk enough to deal with this …_

 **LXIII: Misadventures in Marriage**

 _AC 298, Winterfell, Winter Town_

 **Theon**

I will admit to covering mainly the most interesting bits of my adventure here in Westeros. As though I was a visitor from another universe, and not a madman... Potentially. The problem is, interesting varies from person to person. So to continue to fill out my story, I will happily go back in time and fill some lost moments out. Frankly, given how complex this entire affair has been, that's probably the best I'm going to do.

So, let's talk about another... "Unforgettable" moment. Before we even called the Banners. Before my father was dead.

I was sitting in the underground caves of Winter Town, trying to relax on a couch. I held my arm over my eyes and sighed, sparing myself of the large shining chandeliers decorating the ceiling of the Bank of the North. I was surrounded by warm green walls, and fixtures made of polished bronze-All part of the wealth of the New North being put to the use of showing off for the people. I guess I couldn't complain too much-The bank was just one of several important institutions using the cave system beneath Winterfell, warmed by the geothermal springs and ventilated by shafts dug by dynamite.

It would be considered a new wonder of the World of Planetos... Once that book was finished. I had other things on my mind right now though.

Dan Greenstone walked up next to me, coughing discretely. I sighed.

"Yes Dan?"

"My Lord, I understand the meeting was... Draining," Dan managed, "but relaxing like this in open view is probably not wise."

"What, am I going to be killed by the decor?" I asked dryly. I sat up and rubbed my temples again with a groan. I ignored the stares of other bank patrons sitting on couches, staring at me. They ranged from simple farmers in machine manufactured clothing, to a few rich local knights and lords. What did I care if they thought I was nuts?

"Urgh... Two hours of land development... Who do I usually have doing the job of overseeing that?" I asked.

"I believe it was Sir Holt," Dan said. "And he regrets being unable to attend, but his new duties have kept him quite busy-"

"Convenient," I grumbled. "He's demoted to a... Half-Knight."

"Uh, my Lord?"

"No! A Quarter Knight. God forbid I make him an _eighth_ of a Knight, then he'll be sorry!" I grumbled. Dan stared at me blankly.

"I... I don't understand, my Lord," Dan said. I sighed.

"Why did I make you my assistant, Dan?"

Dan rubbed his chin. "Because you said I had a memory like an archive, and all the imagination of a rock?"

"You remember that? Good on you, Dan," I said with a nod. "Keep up the good work."

"Yes sir," Dan said, without any sense of irony. That or he was a very, very good actor. I hadn't ruled it out. _Game of Thrones_ and all. Though so far the most cunning thing he'd ever done to subvert my efforts to reform the North was change the color of my binders for filing without telling me.

"So, what's next?" I asked. Dan flipped through his notebook.

"The opening of the Glass Gardens in the Warm Below," he said. "Nice and easy."

"Oh! That's finished?" I asked. I smiled. "Neat! Let's go!"

I rose and headed out the large oak doors of the bank, joining the main plaza. It was polished, with stalactites and stalagmites carved to hold light fixtures and just to serve as decoration. Carts run by salesmen populated the broad plaza, people sharing their wares, selling, bargaining-All in the comfort of the underground. People ate food in courts. A group of mechanics repaired a water fountain where anyone could get a drink of warm spring water. Posters advertising shows, hunting and mercenary services, and others hung on the walls, proof of a higher literacy rate. And the lights provided by my first electric generators, as well as mirror-reflected skylights, gave everyone more than enough light to do their business.

Like I said, Wonders of Westeros. Definitely making the list. Hell, even the _King himself_ had been impressed! Even while drunk.

... Maybe even especially while drunk. I'd figured out how to make the lager, after all.

Though I will admit, the entire thing looked a bit like a steampunk _Flintstones_ version of Rapture from _Bioshock._

That said, the only people who would think that were in some other universe. So I put it out of my mind.

We made it to the Glass Gardens, which were covered in curtains. I grinned as I saw Robb and Caitlyn-They too had to do this. Caitlyn looked happy, while Robb looked bored out of his skull, even at the crowd of reporters and onlookers. Robb caught my eye first and I kept grinning. He glared right back as I walked up alongside him on the small stage.

"You look cheerful," Robb muttered, "finally get laid with Ramsay?"

"You look miserable. Lady Caitlyn catch you dancing again?" I asked. Robb sighed and rolled his eyes as Caitlyn glared at us both.

"Be proper, won't you?" She hissed. She turned back to the crowd, beaming. "This is a great day!"

"We have enough excess wealth to create cheap tourist traps," I said cheerfully. "All is going according to plan."

"It was _your idea,"_ Caitlyn muttered. I shrugged.

"True, but I can enjoy Robb being unhappy about opening a garden," I said. "Next up, he'll be cutting the ribbon at the opening of House Corvise's next shoe factory."

"I'm already doing that," Robb said flatly. I shrugged.

"Lucky guess...?"

"Honestly you two!" Caitlyn huffed. She then stepped up to the basic sound horn-Just a cone for speaking louder through. " _Welcome all! Welcome!"_

"My Lady and Lords!" The crowd replied. Caitlyn beamed.

"We are so happy to announce the opening of the Glass Gardens, down here in Winter Town. So that all children of the North may see the wonders of the South," she spoke. "With that done... Workers, please!"

Several workers pulled on ropes... And pulled a bit harder. A reporter coughed. Caitlyn glared darkly. The workers struggled a bit more... And finally, the curtains came down. Colorful plants of all shapes and sizes shined behind the sealed glass windows. Children pushed forward, pressing their noses against the glass as the photographers flashed their bulbs. And much applause filled the caverns of Winter Town.

Most of all, I was just happy to see the bright smile on my adoptive mother's face. Sure, I complained a lot. But it was nice to see her beam like that. Robb had to agree, given the small smile he was now wearing.

At least, until someone patted my shoulder. I looked over-It was a soldier of the First Brigade, which was still in training. A cadet-captain... Morcar Flint! His name came to me in an instant before he spoke. The younger man looked nervous.

"Ah, my lords," he muttered, "Lord Bran has... Has gone missing."

"Missing?" Dan whispered in shock. I gave Morcar a hard look as Robb took control of the situation.

"Where? Doing what?" Robb demanded.

"He was trying his new saddle-The one Lord Greyjoy built? And his horse went off, we lost track of him and-"

"We'll handle this," Robb said quickly. "Theon? Saddle up and go with Morcar. I'll follow with Gray Wind."

"Roger," I said. I turned to the crowd, thought of excusing myself dramatically... But a concerned look from Caitlyn stilled me. I shook my head.

"No problem," I murmured, as I turned and walked quickly to the nearest stairwell. "Just a little... Canon issue..."

Wait. When Bran rode off in the book and show... My eyes widened and I broke into a run.

Shit shit shit shit shit!

Fortunately, thanks to Gray Wind's keen nose and eyes, and Robb's latent warging, we found Bran in record time.

Unfortunately, he was being held by a group of wildlings near a trash heap on the outskirts of Winter Town. The butterflies caused by my changes hadn't affected the players too much-I could still spot a dark haired woman with the grungy looking men. But they clearly had been camping out in the dump-Something a lot of drifters and the homeless did, despite my best efforts to get them housing.

"I count five," Robb muttered as he observed them through binoculars. "They've got him... Right by the fire..."

"We could take them with a force of troops, my lords," Flint said quickly. "The First Brigade's training camp is not too far-"

"They've got a hostage and they probably know who he is," Robb said, "they won't stay any longer than they have to..." He shook his head and looked to me. "Got a plan, Theon?"

I hummed. I looked around the garbage heap-Pots, glass jars... A few glass beakers from my lab-Not sure why I threw them out-

"How much gunpowder do you have, Cadet-Captain?" I asked.

"A few rounds-" He began. I reached out my hand. He handed a few cartridges over, and I pulled out some tools and tape. It had been a bitch to invent, but it was money well spent-Even though it all smelled a bit like paint thinner. Something in the chemical mixture, should look into that.

I worked at it, adding a few pieces of junk and joining it all together. I grinned as I held up my creation, Robb and Morcar staring at it.

"What is that?" Robb asked.

"Very simple," I said, as I pumped air into my improvised noisemaker, "a little pressure and some junk... And... Oh! Robb, have Grey Wind ready to flank. Morcar, cover us."

"But-!" Robb tried.

"I have a plan," I said.

"Right," Morcar said, pulling out his rifle. It was one of the new breechloaders-Not my most elegant work, but still a faster rate of fire than any muzzleloader. I slid down the pile of trash, and lit my noisemaker. I peered around the pile of junk, and threw it as hard as I could. It landed... Right where I didn't want it to-The fire.

The Wildlings looked up as shots and small explosions burst from the fire, and the horse panicked. The Wildlings fled in terror, one dark haired woman pulling Bran along with a companion.

Morcar opened fire, one, two of the Wildlings falling. Robb slid down the junk pile and opened up with his revolvers, dropping the last as he ran after his brother. I followed, hopping over the bodies of the dead Wildlings.

We didn't have far to go-Grey Wind had stopped the fleeing Wildlings, and was snarling at them. Summer too was there, snarling from their flank. Bran grinned as he saw us and our wolves.

"Robb! Theon!" He shouted. Robb held his revolver out at the male Wildling, who was pressing a knife to Bran's throat.

"Let us go... Let us go, or the boy's blood feeds the trees!" Snarled the Wildling. Robb thought about it as the Wildling turned his back to Grey Wind... And then smirked.

"No," Robb said. He nodded to me. The Wildling tensed... Before I put a hole between his eyes. Bran winced at the blood, but his good mood returned when Summer slammed the dying man to the ground and set him free. The dark haired woman trembled and tried to run, but Grey Wind snarled in her face. She fell down, and the wolf advanced on her menacingly. I looked at Robb-His eyes almost looked yellow, almost as menacing-

"Woah woah woah!" I said, holding my hands up. I ran up in front of the cowering woman, and Grey Wind pulled back. "Hey... I think we've killed enough today, right?" I looked over at Robb and Bran. Robb was silent for a bit, and nodded slowly. He glared at the Wildling woman.

"You've tried to take the life of a Stark," Robb growled. "Your life can be forfeit as a result..."

"After a trial," I reminded him. Robb scowled.

"A trial?"

"Yeah. Trial. It's the law, remember?" I asked. Robb grit his teeth.

"But she-!"

"The other option," I said quickly, "is for us to take her... As our servant. Don't the Wildlings have some kind of ritual of being taken?" I asked. The woman... Flushed, and looked at the ground.

"I... Aye, sir," she said. I looked over at Robb with a smile.

"See? And we have that new thing of community service! She can serve the people she tried to take from!" I said cheerfully. "I'll take her under my wing! Because she's not going to pull this shit ever again, right?" I looked at her. She nodded meekly.

"Aye... Aye..."

"My Lord," Robb prompted with a glare. "You call us 'My Lord Robb', 'My Lord Bran', or-"

"Or you can call me Theon," I said quickly. "Right?"

The woman nodded. Robb knelt down by Bran and made sure he was allright, as I examined her.

"What's your name?" I asked cheerfully.

"... Osha," she said. "My lord," she added, at Robb's look. I mentally snapped my fingers. Osha! Right! She was played by the woman who played Tonks! I think. My memory was a little fuzzy after several years without the Internet.

Though I could have sworn Amarda looked like Hermione Granger's actress... Or maybe Luna Lovegood's.

It'd been a while, give me a break!

"Anyway!" I said cheerfully, as Cadet-Captain Flint approached with his rifle, "good work Flint! You're showing your stuff."

"Thank you, my Lords," Flint said modestly. Robb nodded.

"Very good shots... I think General Ryswell will need an aide. You're going to the top of the list."

Flint beamed, and saluted. "Yes, my Lord!"

"As for... Miss Osha here," I said, turning back, "let's get you back to the castle, shall we?"

"... Will you carry me... Theon?" She asked softly.

"Is... Your foot hurt?" I asked, confused. She blinked... And nodded.

"Aye, a bit."

"No problem then," I said cheerfully. I hefted her up in a fireman's carry. "Robb, you got Bran?"

"Of course," Robb said, getting Bran up. I smiled at my brothers, and at the Cadet-Captain.

"There we go then! Happy ending... Mostly..." I sighed as the wolves sniffed the dead body of the Wildling. "Miss Osha, you have any burial rites for your people-?"

"Burn them. All o' them. Please," she said quickly, fear in her voice. I looked over at Morcar and Robb, who looked confused... But I knew why. I nodded.

"Lady's got a point," I said. "Come on!"

It wasn't long before Robb and I were neck deep in preparations, our mother was kidnapping Tyrion Lannister, and the whole ugly mess of the War of the Five Kings began. But at least I had Osha serving the family and being a faithful retainer... With a surprising amount of work and affection given to me.

I didn't think anything of it though... Until that night in Maidenpool.

 **Omake: And so we enter ... Endgame.**

Thunder rumbled over King's Landing.

Thunder was hardly an unknown to the half a million people who called the city home. Indeed, the frequent summer storms that washed over the city were welcomed for the sharp and focused downpours they brought with them; a torrent of water that flushed all the shit through Flea Bottom and out of King's landing into Blackwater Bay. A good storm could clear the air into something almost breathable for a day before the inevitable miasma returned.

However in recent days, a new type of thunder had started to intrude on the lives of those living in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. One that made smallfolk and highborn both nervously glance out in the direction of the Crownlands when it came. _  
_The thunder of the North. _  
_It was nothing less than a herald; warning all who heard the terrible noise that Robb Stark and his army of vengeance were now so close to the capital that their cannons could be heard from the Iron Throne itself. And for all the work the agents of the Red Keep and town criers put in insisting the war went well, many of them hesitated in their practiced speeches as the distant rumble of the guns had sprung up, seemingly timed to mock their loud assurances that victory grew ever nearer.

But tonight at least, the thunder was not a harbinger of death.

No, to the relief of many, this was _real_ thunder. Flashes of distant lightning could be seen deep over the Crownlands, briefly illuminating the clouds above as a late summer storm slowly gathered strength. Watching the play of nature from a balcony on one of the Red Keeps plentiful towers as an evening breeze stirred, Petyr Baelish couldn't help but wonder if a similar display of light and sound had inspired Theon Greyjoy so many years ago, causing the young Kraken to dare to steal fire and thunder from the Gods themselves to turn against his enemies.

Personally, he couldn't help but approve of the sheer hubris inherent in such a thought.

Indeed, he almost felt some measure of kinship with the young Greyjoy. Seized as a hostage and starting from nothing _with_ nothing, the Squid had wasted little time making himself utterly indispensable to Ned Stark. Much as Petyr had in turn made himself indispensable to first Jon Arryn and then Robert Baratheon, Theon had become so to first Eddard and then Robb Stark, with his council now sought by half the Lords and Lord Paramount's of the Realm!

Simply put, when Theon Greyjoy spoke; High and Low born from The Wall to Dorne _listened_.

And yet there was one key difference between them. Despite his incredible power, Theon had refused to take that last obvious step to truly become his peer. Content to play a supporting role in the mummer's troupe around the King in the North, he was unable or more likely, _unwilling_ to step around or over them to demand his due for everything he had given them. Or take it if they refused.

It had to be that damnable Stark sense of 'honor'.

Truly, he _was_ Ned Stark's 'son', bound by chains the otherwise brilliant man could not see as he labored away for the North. Refusing to step outside of the role assigned to him as he masterminded events for the Starks. Spinning victory after victory in exchange for no more than a hearty well done and pat on the back... _  
That_ was where his sense of kinship faded. For all their similarities in inciting and navigating chaos and disruption as others drowned in it; Petyr Baelish would never, _could never_ be content to play a beast of burden others used to drag forward their own agendas.

No, _he_ would survive the storm closing in on King's Landing - and do so on his own terms. Dynasties came and went, rulers lived and died. Lords and Knights and Houses, causes and crusade rose and fall. Order gave way to Chaos, Chaos in turn gave way to order.

But _he_ remained.

"Poetic isn't it?" a familiar voice broke into his thoughts from behind him as he took a sip of Dornish wine from the cup he had brought with him. "The distant storm that is now almost at our doorstep as we ask 'how did it come to this?'"

Petyr did not react in any way to the unannounced presence, save to put a well-practiced smile onto his face. He _was_ going to miss these little chats...

"Some of us may ask that" he agreed as he continued to look out at the distant storm far beyond the walls of King's Landing and flashes of lightning. "Others may reflect that this was inevitable from the moment Ned Stark's head hit the ground"

"That is true" the Master of Whispers acknowledged as he stepped up silently, folding arms onto the top of the parapet and studying the distant flashes of lightning. "Such a pity that preventing it became inevitable after that day in the Throne Room. But then to be perfectly fair, you _did_ tell Lord Stark not to trust you" the other conceded before offering him a sly smile. "And it _is_ rather hard to stab someone in the back unless you are standing fully behind them".

Petyr felt his grin twitch a little at the jab, covering it easily with a sip of his wine. One of his greatest achievements to date; having Lord Stark and his men walk right into the trap set for them, even doing him the courtesy of leaving their thunderarms behind. He certainly had _not_ wanted the man's bodyguards armed to the teeth - he had seen first hand how terribly intimidating they were when Jamie Lannister and a group of his soldiers had confronted Ned Stark outside of his brothel weeks before. When Jamie had drawn his sword in response to Ned's (false he knew even at the time) claim that Tyrion's arrest had been at _his_ command, Ned had simply snapped a finger in an uncharacteristically showy way … and a half dozen of his men concealed on roofs around the square had suddenly revealed themselves - and their whistler sharpshooting rifles.

All aimed _squarely_ at the Kingslayer.

And as the Lannister men had hesitated and looked to the frozen Jamie for leadership, Ned's 'official' guards had stepped out from his brothel, carrying enormous double barrel shotguns that had become legendary in the training yards for the sheer _mess_ their 'flayer rounds' could make of close groups of pig carcasses, making it abundantly clear that if either Jamie or his men tried anything, they would die very quick, very painful and _very_ messy deaths.

Eddard Stark had let the unspoken threat stand for a good five seconds or so of strained silence, before finally responding to Jamie's previous bravado in a voice as cold as a Northern Winter.

"Aye, you're fast with that Sword Ser Jamie … but I've yet to see a man who can outrun a bullet".

Despite his dislike of Ned Stark ... Petyr couldn't help but feel a fierce sense of delight in being present to witness an event as historic as Ser Jamie Lannister facing mortality for perhaps the first time in his life. The realization that for all his confidence in his vaunted abilities … he would be _dead_ the instant Lord Stark ordered it, if he wanted it so. _  
_And for once showing commendable common sense Ser Jamie had backed off, darkly warning that his father would hear about this. And events had only spiraled out of control from there.

Gloriously.

Still after witnessing _that_ incident first hand, he had made sure that Lord Starks Guards had left their powerful weapons behind when marching into the Throne Room, promising overwhelming numbers of the Goldcloaks would be present alongside his own men. Stark had readily agreed to his implacable logic that if things did go bad, the _last_ thing they needed was a stray bullet hitting the Prince or Queen and setting off the very war he was trying to avoid. _  
_But to be perfectly fair, he had never confirmed to Lord Stark on _whose_ side the overwhelming numbers of Goldcloaks would be...

"That I did" Petyr conceded the point easily. "Whereas I, as always, stand in awe of your firm unshakable loyalty … to the Targaryens. Then the Baratheons … and _then_ the Lannisters". He paused for just a half second before continuing to drive in the point with a smile. "Shall we soon add the Starks to that exalted list? Or perhaps" he dared, "the Targaryens once more?"

Or perhaps never anyone but _the Targaryens_ he said without saying, the implication all too clear to the two of them.

"It is always gratifying to know one's talents are in high demand" Varys parried without blinking. "Although I'm not terribly certain if Robb Stark would have much use for your services - he seems quite happily married to the flower of the Reach now. And he really doesn't seem to be the type to sleep around".

"Early days yet my Friend" Petyr felt his smile grow for a moment before schooling it back into submission. "I'm sure many said the same about the _honorable"_ \- he filled that word with the scorn it deserved- "Ned Stark before he showed up with Jon Snow". How the man had so brazenly cheated on Cat like that and been forgiven without a second thought, still held up as a paragon of virtue instead of a hypocrite … even now it could make his hand clench involuntarily.

"Yes. A most fascinating story that one" Varys agreed with a tiny hint of … something … in his voice for a moment. "But it does seem that the Young Wolf and his bride _are_ madly in love with each other".

"Your _expertise_ on the subject, I am sure, is legendary" he couldn't help but snark, getting one final jab in at the others lack of 'equipment' in _that_ arena. "But still my friend, business is always business, even among a pack of Wolves".

And I know business.

"Indeed" the other saluted the hit with a slight nod before pulling back and turning back to observe the storm, while continuing to talk. "In fact while we are speaking of business, I _do_ recall a Little Bird came to me several days ago talking about a new, shall we say, business opportunity that has opened up in the Vale of Arryn. In the Mountains south of Coldwater Burn? I mention it only because I do know it is close to your ancestral holdings in the Fingers…"

"Oh?" Petyr kept his face perfectly composed. "Please, do tell?"

"Well, if you insist" the other said, glancing at him with a brief smile. "It seems that large quantities of coal were discovered several years ago in the region, never touched for lack of any real demand at the time as I understand it. But with the North increasingly consuming it faster than they can dig it out, it has become _quite_ the valuable commodity to them. And a new… company … of sorts, has just been granted mining rights to the region by the Lords in question. Giving said company, it so happens, control of the largest known deposits on the continent..."

"What a _fortunate_ coincidence" Petyr agreed with an absolutely flawless look of mild interest, even as he again lovingly calculated just how much money he would make from the operation. And even better, the sheer strategic value of the operation should encourage the North to be as pragmatic with him as they were being with the Lannisters.

"Still, one must admit a sense of relief that one's home has managed to avoid the horrors and chaos of this war".

"Really? As I understand it Edmure Tully made _quite_ the mess of all three towers at your 'home'" Varys quipped back, always one to seize an opening to needle him. "He does seem to have become all too fond of those cannon of his - I hear Robb Stark has actually named him field commander of his armies artillery. _He_ seems to certainly be moving up in the world..."

"Harrenhal was but a means to an end, the title turned out to be far lighter and easier to move than the rocks of that ruin" Petyr scoffed, trying not to be baited by the mention of Edmure bombarding his nominal holdings; the childish brother of Catelyn and Lysa had always delighted in mocking him when they were young. No doubt he had been equally delighted in using that decrepit ruin for target practice after hearing it was nominally now _his_ holding. "No as the days go on, I must admit I do increasingly yearn for the mountains of my youth in the Vale".

"Ah yes, the Vale of Aryn. Such disturbing rumors I hear these days" the other said with a voice of false sympathy. "Increasing numbers of Lords who grow restless with their forced neutrality as they watch the North close in on King's Landing…"

"All I am sure, wishing to be let out to support their King" Petyr said with a perfectly straight face.

"But of course" Varys agreed, both knowing the King in question the Lords wished to fight for certainly _wasn't_ the one in King's Landing. "I do fear that House Aryns hold on their vassals is slipping, sad to say. Talk of banners being raised without her permission to enter the war - or even raised _against_ her in frustration at the Lady Aryn's inaction. Not helped I am sure, by the Despoiler continuing to lay the blame for Lord Aryn's death on the hands of certain Lannisters..."

"Shocking, truly - I'll be sure to investigate closely when I arrive" Petyr promised with just the right tone of concern. He indeed _would_ be sure to do that; by the Old and New Gods, the _last_ thing he needed was the Vale fragmenting just as he was moving his final pieces into place to take over! He had already heard word from his agents that Mya Stone, one of Robert's bastards and an accomplished enough warrior in her own right had slipped away with a 'wink and a nod' from House Royce to join Robert Starks army, alongside any number of 'volunteers'. _Apparently_ her own decision after reading newspapers that extolled any number of 'Warrior Women' in service to Robb Stark.

He didn't believe that for a second.

She was a bastard, which let House Royce cast her aside should this backfire on them … yet high up _enough_ that they could take full credit for her glory in the event of a victory, putting them on the winning side of the King in the North as seemed a foregone conclusion now. Quite clever. And if something wasn't done soon, she might only be the vanguard...

"Oh yes, your pending marriage to the Lady Aryn. I suppose congratulations are in order - I _do_ know how long the thought of this has been on your mind. Surely, a truly _joyous_ day for you ... or at least her. And a marriage not without its compensations I must say …"

The tone of the other was truly a thing of beauty. The assured, knowing voice that said Varys knew exactly what kind of a person Lysa … yet mixed with annoyance that he was about to be put into a position of _real_ power in the Seven Kingdoms. Becoming a Lord Paramount in truth, if not in name once he was settled in.

"It is quite flattering - really" he smiled instead as he pushed away from the parapet, leaving the cup behind and closing the distance between them with slow deliberate steps as his mind flashed back over the last week where he had found himself unknowingly almost trapped in the middle of a carefully spun web of this man. "That you feel such … _dread_ at the prospect of me getting what I want".

"Thwarting you has _never_ been my primary ambition I assure you" the other dismissively sighed before Varys let a tiny smile play on his face for a moment as Petyr halted just in front of him. "But then" he added, "who doesn't like to see their friends fail every now and again?"

"You're so right" Petyr agreed, his smile darkening ever so slightly. "I in fact had _quite_ the bad investment recently. A young woman of particular skill, but one who didn't bring me any enjoyment. Any compensations. Simply trouble begetting trouble" he noted, stepping around the other and back to the parapet, glancing down into the courtyard and letting his smile widen slightly, delighted beyond measure that Varys would be here to witness this event.

From said courtyard, sudden _bangs_ of gunshots rang out, one after the other. No cries or alarms and ringing of alarm bells followed to indicate intruders, instead only a woman's screams could be heard. Varys turned to follow his gaze … and for a fraction of a fraction of a second out of the corner of his eye, Petyr could see the man clench his jaw at the sight far below as he realized what was happening before he again smothered his expression.

"She was a bad investment" Petyr didn't _quite_ gloat as two final shots rang out in rapid succession, the screams of the woman churning off into a gurgling that faded away finally into nothing. Ros, a whore from the North with nothing but her body whom he had elevated into a position of real power, only for him to repay him with betrayal. And now? Now she was nothing but a carcass being hauled down from the wall, her once stunning face a ruined mess. A fitting end for the whore and payment in full for services rendered.

 _"_ Luckily, even bad investments can have their losses recouped with some … ingenuity" he smiled down at the dead body with no small amount of satisfaction. "And our King was so _eager_ to prepare for what is coming to King's Landing and get in some target practice…"

Down below, a couple of Lannister soldiers dragged away the corpse bleeding all over the courtyard. Standing in the open, his shoulders still heaving in excitement and Ned Stark's former revolver clutched in his hand, Joffrey Lannister turned to shoot a grin at a cluster of people dutifully following him who applauded his 'skill', thrusting 'Blizzard' high into the sky in triumph at them. Indeed, the King had been so delighted with the opportunity he had not even hesitated in giving him a sealed travel document ensuring he would get through the checkpoints and patrols around King's Landing without delay.

Far more useful to him in death than in life, Ros had turned out to be...

"Bad fortune and reversals come to all of us in such troubled times" Varys simply said before casually changing the subject, clearly having gotten the message and acknowledging the little victory in their back and forth game. "I _do_ hope that your journey is a safe one my Lord. Our King is certainly in need of close, dependable counsel and the loss of you in the small council chamber will be felt most keenly".

"Indeed" Petyr agreed, ignoring the rather unsubtle implication that his leaving the city for good would be a net improvement for the King, at least in the Spiders mind. But that was fine. Let Varys fret about his precious 'Realm' as it continued to shrink or his Targaryen fools across the narrow sea or whoever he truly supported - he honestly couldn't care.

Varys could die with his past while _he_ created the future. _  
_

 _"_ Of course" he continued, "with the Northern Fleet blockading Dragonstone and Blackwater bay I have been forced to take a somewhat more … lengthy route. Which will, unfortunately, result in my absence for an extended time".

"King's Landing simply _won't_ be the same without you" the other said in a voice so perfectly absent of sarcasm it somehow came back around to reach a whole _new level_ of sarcasm, even as he offered a small bow, his hands again folded inside his sleeves. "A safe journey then My Lord".

Petyr wordlessly saluted the other with his cup before placing it casually on the parapet and moving away, back into the tower and to the winding stairs in the middle of the stone structure. A bonus that was, Varys arriving to wish him goodbye _just_ in time to see his newest 'little bird' pay the price for her treachery. Some small payment on the enormous debt he owed the man for the events of the last few weeks. And a warning that said without saying that he knew exactly what the Spider had done.

Or at least, what the Spider had _tried_ to do …

As he stomped down the stairs, his mind again flashed back to just over a week ago walking down a near identical stairwell in the Tower of the Hand. He had just finished (escaped might be a better word) his meeting with Tywin Lannister, having successfully foisted off responsibility for the failed attempt on Robb Starks life onto Joffrey. Congratulating himself for being sure to have the assassin's leader meet with the King and 'take his orders', then getting their _real_ orders from _him_ before they left King's Landing - through a cutout of course _._ A thin illusion to be sure, but it was enough that Joffrey would be left with no defense when his furious uncle confronted him about his actions and accused him of ordering the assassination and forced him to accept the consequences of his failure. _  
_At the same time, he had been somewhat distracted wondering where in the seven hells his knife was. It was no cheap weapon, but castle forged steel with precious gems and gold in the pommel … but it was missing from its scabbard. He dismissed the idea he had been pickpocketed inside the Red Keep almost at once, deciding that he must have left it inside his chambers when getting dressed. Exiting the tower feelingly mildly annoyed with himself for leaving his chambers unarmed, he had started to cross the stone courtyard to rectify this mistake … when Tywin Lannister had arrived.

That is to say, he had crashed to the ground next to him with a sickening _crunch,_ compressing into a horrific tangle of bone, blood and fine clothes, barely missing landing on top of him by a matter of meters.

To say he was shocked would be something of an understatement.

That frozen moment had in turn shattered into a million pieces as with a loud _ding_ , a familiar knife had crashed into the ground next to him, bouncing into the air. Its handle gleaming with jewels and its castle forged blade shimmering with blood … and the mockingbird symbol in its hilt seeming almost to wink at him.

Petyr had always been a fast thinker, a man in his position needed to be after all. But for the first time in his life, time _itself_ seemed to slow down to grant him long enough to fully take in the situation as his eyes locked onto the mockingbird, as the consequences of this became readily apparent.

Fact. The body of Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands had just smashed to the flagstones right next to him.

Fact. He had been the last person to see the man alive.

Fact. His knife, clearly covered in blood, had just landed right next to the body in question.

It didn't take someone as smart as he to realize exactly what this confluence of facts would mean when presented to Cersei and Joffrey.

Faster than he had moved in his life, his hand had swung down without conscious thought, just pure desperation. Snatching up the knife even as it bounced back from the ground. Catching it cleanly by the hilt, he slammed it home into its scabbard in a singular fluid motion he suspected he wouldn't have been able to duplicate on any other day in his life as time seemed to speed back up again with the rumble of armored footsteps approaching-

"No!"

a voice had cried out and he looked up to see an ashen looking Lancel Lannister and a group of guards come running towards him from around a corner-

"I was … I was just walking out of the tower and he fell-" Petyr had rapidly started to spin his tale, only to be cut off by the Knight.

"I know, we saw him falling from around the corner" Lancel replied in shock as he skidded to a halt and knelt gingerly next to the mess, his face growing even more pale as he realized that the _true_ power of the Lannister family … was dead. And while not the brightest fire in the night, surely even Lancel could appreciate the chaos that was sure to come.

"Did you see anyone? Anything?" the other demanded his eyes wide with adrenaline, fear and uncertainty. And helpfully, Petry provided him with some direction. The _right_ direction. Away from him!

"I .. I just finished meeting with him and left his chambers perhaps five minutes ago!" Petry didn't have to work hard to sound like he was in shock as his mind spun deciding to throw some suspects at the other. "There are any number of servants and nobles inside the tower I passed on the stairs as I made my way down from his chambers-"

"To the tower, let no-one out!" Lancel yelled wildly at his guards and they snapped into motion, reaching the door and starting to push back the people who had started to gather them into the tower without concern for social niceties or rank. Some protested, but all shut their mouths as the grim guards drew their swords.

"I will inform the King and Queen Mother" Petyr volunteered, getting a nod from the other as he charged into the tower.

And he had done so … _after_ stopping by his chambers and hastily rinsing his knife clean of any trace of blood, washing his slightly shaking hands and checking his appearance was appropriately disheveled before hurrying to the Throne Room. Suffice to say reaction had been stunned when he stormed in, making the most of the full court present to play to the audience with his announcement. Cersei had gone white with shock, then fear and finally fury at the announcement while Joffrey had looked, if anything, delighted to be relieved of dealing with petitioners, dismissing the court with an attempt at grandeur and sorrow that was rather pathetic. _  
_Petyr in turn had used the chaos and confusion as room was cleared and the Small Council assembled to carefully go over the events once more and get his story straight in his mind … and to his shock, he realized he had _not_ been the last man to see the Hand of the King alive.

Replaying the events, he now recalled that as he had left the apartments that cupbearer Tywin had picked up at Harrenhal had been present, easing past him with a load of food and drink into the rooms. He had in fact all but pushed past her in his haste to get out of the rooms before Tywin changed his mind about who to blame for the Riverrun fiasco. And as he took his seat in the Small Council chamber, he had need to work hard to suppress a totally inappropriate smile as he realized he had the perfect sacrifice to throw suspicion onto. Oh he doubted she was responsible for the death of the Lannister patriarch. If nothing else, the girl had plenty of easier opportunities before now to eliminate him, when his death might have actually made some kind of difference in the war's outcome. But he could care less about her innocence; she would do perfectly as a bone to throw to the Lions to keep them distracted...

That happy scenario had only lasted for a few seconds after they had settled down however, with Lancel Lannister arriving somewhat out of breath followed by the hulking form of Ser Sandor Clegane, who had been on guard duty outside the Hand's chambers. At once, Cersei in a voice of fury and rage had seized control of proceedings, demanding to know how this had happened and who was responsible. Not one to be upstaged and now sitting at the head of the table, King Joffrey (quite possibly finally realizing that with Tywin gone he answered to _no-one)_ had also jumped in at that point, snarling and demanding that the 'dog' answer the question of why he shouldn't have his head put on a spike then and there for his failure.

Something- Petyr wasn't sure what- had flickered through the 'Hound's' eyes at that demand, but it had been gone almost before he had seen it. And to his annoyance, the gruff Hound had matter-of-factly reported that Petyr had just left the chambers (causing everyone to turn and look at him in a _very_ unsettling way) as man's cupbearer had then entered the rooms. Sandor had walked over to keep an eye on her, but she had simply put the food on a table before being chased out by a furious but very much alive Tywin, who had slammed the door shut and locked it behind him, clearly angry about something and in no mood for company. Then, a minute or two later, his attention had been drawn out a window to a body on the ground by screaming. He had promptly kicked the door in and a quick search of the rooms had found them to be entirely empty, with the food untouched. Lancel then adding that a thorough search of everyone in the tower had found no evidence of murder or four play.

The lack of any clear evidence had stalled Cersei for a moment, her tear streaked face seeming to wildly swerve around the room looking for a target, with no-one daring to speak up lest she chose them as the next one. She had then interrogated Sandor, Lancel and him too, blasting them with questions and suspicions, grasping at straws in her grief and fury to find someone - _anyone_ \- to blame for the death of her Father.

For once actually being helpful, Maester Pycelle had interrupted to babble on about recent medical knowedge breakthroughs around heart conditions in older people (smartly _not_ pointing out that Theon Greyjoy was the indirect source of said knowledge). Conditions that were often brought on by great stress, where older men could simply collapse and die as their hearts gave out - and if he had been stressed and gone outside to the parapet, feeling the heat and shortness of breath of such an attack and looking for fresh air …

That of course had caused Cersei to once again round on _him,_ her eyes blazing as she demanded to know what _he_ had done to make her father so furious. Petyr in turn had slowly started to explain about Robb Starks wedding, shooting pointed looks at Joffrey several times before the boy-King finally 'got' it and belatedly jumped in to protect his culpability, standing up suddenly to declare he had heard enough and that this was clearly a tragic accident. And despite the appalled look on his Mother's face, he had dismissed the council, running out to collect his Grandfather's 'whip' through which the Unsullied could be controlled.

The Gods alone knew what fun he was going to inflict on the poor citizens of King's Landing with those utterly obedient soldiers.

Cersei her face darker than the Long Night had stormed out after him, Pycelle shuffling as quickly as he could in her wake to leave only he and the Spider present in the chamber. And as they had risen from their seats, his gaze had for just a moment locked with that of Lord Varys and the tiny smirk on it before he too had shuffled out … and suddenly everything had come into focus with breathtaking, terrible clarity.

As soon as practical after the immediate chaos had died down, he had left the Red Keep for his brothel, having some of his more useful thugs snatch Ros as he stormed through the building, bringing her to his office. It had not taken terribly much encouragement in the face of his fury for her to admit to his suspicions; that she _had_ been passing information to Varys after she had gotten caught up in the game between Tyrion and Cersei, begging for forgiveness from him he had little inclination to give. He had not even bothered to listen to her pleas when she had denied separating him from his knife and handing it off or leaving it out for the assassin, knowing she was more than smart enough to admit to the lesser betrayal while vigorously denying the greater one. Instead he had her thrown into a cell for the amusement of the City Watch until he could decide what he would do with her.

Later in the evening as the bells continued to ring out to mourn the death of Lord Tywin, Petyr had banished all from his presence as he carefully thought through everything, becoming increasingly convinced that he had worked through to the horrifying truth of things. It all made such _perfect sense_ after all. On the face of it, the Lannister cause was doomed. Lord Tywin clearly would not surrender, but if he were to die suddenly, there was every possibility Robb Stark would be happy enough to forgo the final battle and allow for a smooth transition for Varys's precious 'Realm' to whatever came next.

And that was only half of the genius. Using _his_ knife to do the dead, framing him and ensuring his execution removed _him_ from the game board, something he knew Varys had wanted to do for a _very_ long time. What was that saying Theon Greyjoy was so fond of?

Oh yes, 'killing two birds with but one stone'. An apt analogy.

That cupbearer had saved his life. Her entering the room and delaying things as she had (one of those impossible to predict 'complications' in such 'business') had in turn caused Tywin to storm through his apartments to kick her out and lock the door, surely destroying the timing of the assassination. Because if it _had_ happened, as it clearly was _supposed_ to, tipping the Hand of the King over the balcony at roughly the same time he was leaving the room with his knife along for the ride...

In _that_ case he would have been greeted by the body in the courtyard when he exited the tower. A body with his knife right next to it, which left the top of the tower at close enough to the same time he had been meeting him...

Pure, distilled, _genius_.

But complicated; a plan that needed perfect knowledge of his movements, access to the Tower of the Hand to slip an assassin in undetected _and_ his knife. Varys was the only possible person who could have arranged this to be with Ros providing the knife and his schedule and Varys no doubt knew of some secret way into and out of the Tower of the Hand, to pull off the _second_ attempt in recent memory to frame someone for a murder using a knife …

And that stray thought caused his eyes to widen yet again.

This entire war had started because he had falsely led poor naive Catelyn to believe Tyrion Lannister had sent an assassin after her cripple of a son, paid for with a rare Valyrian Steel knife belonging to Tyrion. That falsehood had almost gotten Tyrion killed several times in quick succession - _would_ have gotten him killed if not for that sell sword he had grown so fond of.

Tyrion, who had always been surprisingly friendly with Varys, even more disturbingly a friendship built entirely upon pragmatism and mutual interests.

Tyrion who loathed his Father as much as his Father loathed him, who with his Father out of the way was now theoretically the Heir to Castley Rock. Something he had wanted all his life but his Father had made abundantly clear _he_ would never give him.

Tyrion, who was now by all his reports much more an honored guest than a prisoner of the Starks, having won their conditional trust and respect, who would be the perfect ally to bring the Westerlands to peace and win the war at a stroke as soon as they took King's Landing.

And Tyrion, who had been framed and almost killed by _his_ efforts. That was a debt that had yet to be paid by him … and a Lannister _always_ paid their debts. What better payment could here have been then having _him_ framed and executed, using his own _knife?_

Convinced, that night Petyr had woken the people he needed woken, sent the Ravens he needed to send and accelerated all his preparations he could make. His plans to quietly move into _the_ position of power in the Vale were well advanced, but he drove forward now with a new urgency, determined to get out of the capital while he still could. Before another more direct attempt was made on his life, keeping the revolver he had acquired at considerable cost hidden inside his jacket from that point forward.

And so, as Petyr Baelish hurried down the stairs, a hand subconsciously drifting to feel the reassuring presence of the six shot gun, he moved quickly to collect his final 'precious cargo'. A cargo that would guarantee he would survive this war and rise even higher afterwards. As he swore to the Old Gods and New Gods that he was _not_ finished yet.

Not with Westeros. Not with Varys. Not with Tyrion. Not with any of them.

Not by half!

Watching his opponent stalk away, the Spider gave no outward signs of his feelings, instead slipping his arms back inside his robes and also vanishing into the tower, but unlike Petyr, he vanished into one of the numerous secret passages that crisscrossed the interior of the Keep to let him move unseen. Cramped, narrow and unlit, they _did_ offer excellent privacy, to move and think unseen.

It truly _was_ a pity about the girl Ros, a final petty act of spite from Baelish in their little game. Trust, badly misplaced or not, was often the only currency worth anything in his line of work and he she had given hers to him. In desperation perhaps, but given none the less that he would keep her safe in exchange for just a little bit of useful information before Lord Baelish left the city. _  
_Still, she was dead now and nothing would change that any more than he could stick Ned Stark's head back on his body and undo the chaos _that_ mistake had set into motion.

No, all he could do was try to shape the future as he always had, protecting it from men like Littlefinger who would gleefully burn the realm down if they could but rule the ashes. Unfortunately, Petyr's smug confidence aside he _was_ already well advanced into positioning himself to not simply survive this war, but thrive from it. No doubt his nemesis presumed that with control of so vital a resource to the North and becoming a Lord Paramount in all but name, his sins would, if not be forgiven, at least excused.

Especially if he could bring back a few tokens of his loyalty to the new order to … what was that charming phrase Theon Greyjoy used? Ah yes, to _spin_ the truth, _just_ enough.

And when Ros had told him that Petyr had organized at considerable expense, a luxurious Bravosi flagged ship waiting somewhere in the Bay of Crabs with a stateroom fit for a Queen (which he would never buy for himself) to take him across the short distance from the Crownlands to the Vale, surely unimpeded by any Northern warship under such a banner, it had become exceedingly clear that he intended for Sansa Stark to be his 'bargaining chip' with the North. And it was annoyingly one that might actually work, given that the North had shown it could be pragmatic given the whispers he was hearing about Kevin and Tyrion Lannister securing a new alliance for the Westerlands for the 'post Tywin' timeframe. If he 'rescued' Sansa, claimed to have secreted her away in the middle of the night to the safety of her Aunt and from there called on Robb to come collect her …

It just might work. And the thought of Littlefinger worming his way into their inner circle like the parasite he was, ready to destroy the best chance for the Realm from the inside out once more… _  
_No. No, the time had come to tidy up the loose thread of the old to prepare for the new.

Accordingly, he had already put his own plans into motion. A few words dropped into the Queen's ear to remind her that they still held Sansa. A very significant 'piece' on the board who Robb Stark would trade a great many concessions for, if used well. Bringing her warnings he had heard whispers there were traitors close to hand growing nervous about her son. Traitors he could not identify as yet, but _might_ be planning to seize her and spirit her away to a no doubt rich reward from Robb Stark. Leaving them nothing to stay his wraith. _  
_Cersei had at once seized on the idea with her typically paranoid focus, moving Sansa into the Royal Apartments with her best (and most fanatical) people in place to 'protect her', a fact Littlefinger would no doubt find to his extreme annoyance in the next few minutes. That said apartment had a long unused but perfectly functional secret passage in one wall was of course simply a happy coincidence for him…

Even Sansa's servants had been mostly dismissed out of paranoia, reduced from a dozen ladies in waiting to a mere two people. Lord Tyrion's former 'servant' Shae -who was fiercely protective of the girl to the point that even Cersei had not bothered to try and split them- had stayed with her. And that former cupbearer who had briefly been the focus of attention today had become the second simply because Sansa had been trying to comfort the shocked girl and thus been available to be tapped for the job.

An odd death indeed for the Lord Hand. But not one he had looked terribly deeply into. Random chance had its part to play just as much as deliberate action, it was something you had to live with and adapt to. He suspected Petyr in turn suspected _him_ of plotting the man's death, a suspicion he had been careful to neither imply nor deny to the other. Instead, he had been content to let the man's thoughts run away with him as fast as he was running away from King's Landing itself. But while he was sure that losing Sansa as a bargaining chip would hurt Littlefinger, it certainly wouldn't be enough to _stop_ him.

No, to _finally_ put an end to the man before he entrenched himself too deeply in what came after Joffrey, he had arranged for some of his agents in Pentos to arrange of a number of documents to fall into the hands of Theon Greyjoy's 'facilitators' in Bravos. Quite authentic documents with the signatures of both Lord Tywin _and_ Lord Baelish on them, agreeing to the purchase of legions of Unsullied, with payment terms in Gold … and a number of Northern prisoners of war, shipped via Pentos. A test of commitment the Good Masters had insisted on that Lord Baelish had personally negotiated and agreed to. _  
_It would be a true pity he couldn't be there to see the look on the face of his good friend when he read the Despoiler issue that would no doubt be blasted across all of the continent, when the North found out just _whose_ signature was on the documents that had sent their sons into slavery...

But as with all things in life, one person's mistakes could be another's opportunity. For if the carefully husbanded favors he had called in went as planned, the Northern slave shipment should have been delayed and transferred through several intermediaries just long enough to arrive at Yunkai, at what should be roughly the same time as Daenerys Targaryen - if her army was on schedule and as efficient as he hoped. Another of his little birds had _finally_ re-made contact with Jorah Mormont, slipping him a note that alerted him to the imminent arrival of said ships and their cargo. _And_ informing him that the few records of his … activities … on behalf of the Iron Throne had been carefully eliminated.

Ser Jorah had never struck him as the smartest of his family, but certainly he was shrewd enough to put things together quickly and realize the incredible opportunity presented for himself and his 'Queen' these prisoners could be. Redemption for himself as he freed Northern slaves after being exiled for sending a handful of criminals into slavery and a unique political opening for his mistress into the new powerhouse of the world.

Navigating through the pitch black tunnels from memory, he halted exactly at the entrance to his room. Carefully, he opened up the tiny hidden vision slits that would let him check the room was empty and the door still secure, before he emerged back into his rooms, sealing the passage behind him before getting to work. _  
_As always when he left via his 'back door', before doing _anything_ else he carefully checked his 'tells' were in place. Small little things that would be all but impossible to notice unless you knew they were what they were, but that would tell him instantly if anyone had entered his room while he was out. A strand of hair resting in the doorframe at a precise height. A pile of documents on his desk that were aligned just _slightly_ off straight. His desks chair touching the underside of the table at a very specific point…

None of it had been touched.

Satisfied as well as he could be that no-one had entered his office, Varys sat down on a comfortable chair at a small side table. A second chair was set on the other side and between the two, covering the bulk of the table surface, a square wooden board had been placed. Made of the very highest quality woods, two different shades had been used to define an even grid of sixty four squares. In front of him in the first two rows, sixteen black marble figures of the very highest quality had been placed. Soldiers in the front row. Castles on the edges of the back, followed by two rearing horses, two Most Devouts and then finally a King and a Queen.

On the opposite side of the board like two armies facing off before a battle, the exact same figures mirrored his, but done in a white marble.

Smiling slightly at the two lines of stone figures, Varys allowed himself a very rare sense of anticipation as he reflected on the fact that finally, tomorrow evening, he just might have someone arrive who could _truly_ challenge him in this glorious game.

But then, he certainly wouldn't expect anything less from the man who had invented it.

 **Omake – King Joffreys Management Style**

"Your Grace," said Lancel Lannister hesitantly as he bowed to the King, as Joffrey lazed on his ornate seat overlooking the courtyard. Servants were scattering sawdust and sand to cover up the blood as the corpse of the latest dog to die in the 'melee' was dragged away. Recently Joffrey had decided to start finding the fiercest, nastiest and most vicious dogs in the Crownlands so he could 'throw the Usurper dog to the dogs', so he had commanded that the castle staff organise dog fights for him to observe. The sight of canines tearing each other apart never ceased to send the young royal into paroxysms of laughter.

Swinging his leg over the arm of his chair, Joffrey accepted a wine goblet from a timid looking serving wench. "Lancel - how goes the training? Finished preparing my armies to crush the Stark cur?"

"I ... that is to say, Your Grace, the men are learning well, but our rations of powder are running rather low, so I was hoping that -"

"What? What powder?" Joffrey asked with genuine confusion in his eyes.

 _Does he ... does he not actually know how thunderarms work_? "T-the black powder, Your Grace, that makes the guns fire. Our m-men have been using it to train with, to get them used to the sound and effect of the weapons, b-but I have only been issued enough for a few shots per man."

Joffrey straightened up in his seat, putting his still full wine goblet aside. "Why would they need to practice? I mean, it's not all that hard," he smiled, stroking the heavy weight of Blizzard where it sat on a cusioned table next to his chair, within easy reach in case he decided to use it. "Point, pull the hammer, pull the trigger, then do it again!"

"Y-yes, Your Grace. However, under the c-chaos of battle, we would prefer that our troops are used to -"

Joffrey's eyes lit up. "Ah, I have it! You're afraid they'll seize up at being shot at, am I right?"

Relief flooded Lancel, and he straightened his spine. "Yes, Your Grace, you have it completely!"

"Well, why didn't you say so?" asked the King, launching himself to his feet. He picked up Blizzard and slid it into the holster at his side. "We must tend to this issue of morale at once! Take me to your men, General!"

Lancel paused, but then bowed, and escorted the King, along with the knights of the Kingsguard and various hangers on, to another courtyard, where several dozen men in Lannister colours were lined up, their muskets in their arms, powder horns and bags of lead balls at their wastes. At the entrance of the king, they all snapped to attention.

Joffrey addressed the soldiers. "Men of Westeros, it has come to my attention that part of your training is experiencing the sound and fury of gunfire, so that you're not alarmed when you encounter it on the battlefield! I am pleased to assist in this endeavor!" And with that he pulled the revolver from his side and put a lead ball through the face of the nearest trainee.

As the thunder echoed about the courtyard, the men drew back in shock and surprise, even as the Kingsguard drew their own blades, in case the soldiers took umbrage to one of their own being slain. "Don't be afraid of the Northerner dog's guns: be afraid of _mine_! If any of you run from the battlefield, I'll have you shot, then I'll have your wives and daughters raped, then I'll have any who survive sold off to the Free Cities as whores!"

Then he turned to Lancel, who was staring at the dead man with a shocked expression, his face white. "There, cousin! I've solved your morale issues. You don't need to thank me: as king, it is my duty!" Slapping the older man on the shoulder, he headed off, handing Blizzard off to a Kingsguard to be reloaded.

If one listened carefully, one could hear the dripping of liquid from Lancel's trousers, since the 'general' had pissed himself.

 **LXIV: Keep it Simple, Stupid! Part 2**

AC 300, The Riverlands, Maidenpool

 **Theon  
**

The Maidenpool castle had a pretty nice solar. Granted a gorgeous view of the Bay of Crabs, ships with sails like icecaps on the clear waters. Seabirds flying and calling for each other. The sun shining down on the landscape, rendering everything in beautiful colors.

Not that I was particularly interested in gazing out at the wonders of Planetos. I was focused on preparations for the mission, while signing off documents Amarda handed to me.

It was familiar. What I'd done most of my life here. Paperwork, resolving things, and fixing things. Comforting, really.

Even with Amarda right by me, and that awkwardness hovering in the air between us.

"The Freys have brought three thousand additional men to Harrenhal-training them in the new armaments is going to take time given the huge number of recruits," Amarda said, holding up the relevant letter. I read it over, and sighed.

"We'll shift them over to the Tully companies-They've been at this for about two months now," I said, flipping through the papers at the desk. Amarda frowned.

"Why not the Reach companies?"

"Frankly, I don't hate the Reach troops enough to inflict a horde of Freys on them," I said wryly. Amarda nodded, making a note. She was still distant, which was quite a feat for such a taciturn woman.

"Greatjon Umber's demanded we give him more time to train with the portable Bolter," she said, "He estimates at least five thousand rounds until he's fully proficient."

I sighed and pinched my brow. "See what we can do," I said. "But for the record, it's _his_ ridiculous idea, he should be paying for it."

"He is," Amarda noted, "but the Boltons are reluctant to part with so much ammunition for one experimental weapon."

"Don't blame them," I muttered. "Okay. We'll talk him into a lower number... Maybe swing for a few more Bolters in his companies."

"Understood," Amarda said. I sighed and leaned back in my chair, the weight of the last few days hitting me hard. It was like my body, now in contact with a chair, had shed all pretense and just let the fatigue go. And a harsh headache, which made me cringe. Amarda kneeled down next to me, worrying her lip.

"My Lord... We can take a break," she said.

"You can," I said with a sigh.

"Are you so quick to ignore Maester Luwin's instructions?" She asked wryly. I looked up at her and smiled.

"Not ignore... Just... Take under advisement."

"Ignore," she pointed out again. I sighed and rubbed my temples.

"You know, I'm not particularly inclined to go to bed right now," I said. Amarda tilted her head.

"Could I offer..." She trailed off, blushing. I looked up at her with a frown, and a blush of my own.

"... Incentive?" I asked. Amarda grimaced, but managed a stiff nod.

"... That is, if you are interested _at all,_ " Amarda said tightly. "After all... I _am_ here to serve you, my Lord. That is what I am, is it not? All I am?"

I stared at her in disbelief. "You... Hang on a second," I said, holding up my hands. "I didn't imply-"

"After all," she continued, eyes narrowed, "I am the mere daughter of a _merchant,_ despite my position at your side. And indeed, many already think we are involved in such a fashion." She turned and sorted through some papers, creasing the surfaces with her nails. "It would not be a stretch, and I'm quite sure politically speaking you would _still_ be able to be matched to a suitable bride-"

I got up and grabbed her shoulders. I turned her around, and she glared at me angrily.

"Amarda!" I said earnestly, "would you let me explain myself?!"

"Now? After saying _nothing_ for days? After speaking with the Princess several times? Or the Wildling woman in your bed?" She asked icily. "You _do_ enjoy throwing yourself into work to avoid unpleasant topics. I've noticed it many times."

"I... Yeah, okay, but you're not one of those unpleasant topics!" I said defensively. "I was... I was just trying to figure out the right time to say what I needed to-"

"What more needs to be said?" Amarda asked coldly, adjusting her glasses in an imperious manner, "the world needs to be saved... And your hand is worth much in marriage now that King Robb is wed. To dally with me would complicate matters. Your decision was completely logical."

"I... But you're still angry," I pointed out. Amarda glared.

"Does it matter what I feel?"

"Does it-?" I smacked my forehead. "Of _course_ it bloody does, Amarda! I do care what you think! And... And what others think of you."

She opened her mouth to continue, but I held up my hand.

"Just... Hang on a second?" I asked. "Okay? Look... The fact of the matter is, Amarda, yes... Part of my reasoning for not... Ya know... Dallying is because... Yeah, I'll probably have to get married for politics."

Unless I figured out a way around that particular roadblock, but... One problem at a time. Save the world from the White Walkers, _then_ sort out my love life.

You know, in order from easiest to hardest task. Only makes sense.

"But!" I grasped her shoulders and smiled at her, "I also didn't... Dally with you because I didn't want people to think that's _all_ I hired you for. I love you for your wit, your patience, your ingenuity... You've saved the North, probably a lot more times than I have. You are someone I care for, _very deeply._ I could not imagine my life without you, and I never want to find out. _"_

Impulsively, I hugged her tightly. She froze like a statue, and then slowly returned the hug. It felt warm... It felt right...

She blushed. "I... I see," she murmured. "And... You do not wish people to think... Badly of me?"

"No! Never!" I said, shaking my head. "You're not just some... Some mistress I bang. You're just as important to the North as me-More so."

Amarda nodded slowly. "I... I see..." She sighed, and sucked in a deep breath. She looked me square in the eyes. "My Lord... I... I would not mind... What people thought... If we were... So involved," she said. "I appreciate that, but given how I've been treated... Such barbs do not harm me." She rested a hand against my chest, and I broke out in a sweat. "And... I would be... Happy to do so... To be... With you, in such a way..."

"I..." I nodded, and grasped her hand, "so would I... But. It's not just your reputation... Or the politics... It's also the fact that, ya know... We have to save the world." I shrugged. "And hey... What if things went badly? You really want to be stuck with me for the rest of your life?"

"i've been putting up with you for four years," Amarda pointed out, "how much less annoying are you likely to become?"

"Okay, fair point," I sighed. "That said... I would prefer our relationship remain... Professional. Until certain conditions are met by reality." I sighed. "That and... Well... When I do get married... I'd-"

Amarda held a finger up to my lips, and shushed me. She nodded slowly.

"I know," she said softly. "Given how things were in Winterfell with Jon Snow... Yes, such complications would be difficult to surmount." She withdrew her finger, and sighed. "I just... I wish things were not so... Complicated," she muttered. I shrugged, and gave her another hug. And a kiss to her forehead.

"You're the one who says we must see things as they are, not as we want them to be," I reminded her. Amarda sighed, resting her chin on my shoulder. I could feel her heartbeat.

"Yes... You make that very, very difficult, my Lord," she said. I smiled.

"Should I take that as a compliment?" I asked teasingly. I got a hint of a smile out of my assistant.

"You probably would anyway."

"I will!" I said cheerfully. Amarda nodded... And stood on tiptoes to steal a kiss. I felt like my face was going to ignite into flames, as our lips met... Then tongues...

Then she pulled away, gasping for breath. She coughed, and adjusted her glasses and hair-When had I mussed those? She pulled out of our hug, and I felt... Ahem... Nevermind.

"Sorry," I mumbled. She shook her head, taking deep breaths to calm herself.

"N-No... It was my actions... I..." She cleared her throat. "Ahem... Perhaps... I think I will see if the _Seawolf_ has signaled yet," she said quickly. "I-I believe it was recalled from an engagement with a few Royal warships-I will make sure it is on schedule-"

"Of course!" I said with a nod. "And I'll go do... Um... Things!"

"Preparing for your mission!" She seized on. I nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes! That! Of course!"

"Of course," she echoed. "Good day, my Lord."

"Miss Honn," I responded. She turned and walked out quickly, her cheeks still glowing red. I sighed and sat back in my chair, rubbing my temples and trying to dispel the stupid grin I had on my face.

"Good session with your assistant, lad?" Asked a familiar voice. I drew my revolver and nearly emptied the first round into the head of the man grinning at me across the desk. Fortunately it stayed 'almost' as it was Oberyn Martell who had invaded the solar. His grin didn't waver, even in the face of my gun.

"I-Nothing happened-When did you get here?!" I sputtered. Oberyn chuckled.

"Well! I got myself assigned to your mission," Oberyn said cheerfully. "I convinced Lord Tyrion that my presence would be useful."

"I... You didn't have to work too hard, I suppose," I admitted. He smirked and raised an eyebrow.

"All depends on how hard I want to work," he said with a warm gaze that left me a bit flustered. Hey, I may be straight as an arrow but Oberyn Martell is a master at making people double or even triple check their sexuality.

"Ah... Thanks," I muttered. "Glad to have you aboard..."

"It's not a good idea to go into battle with such awkwardness hanging over you, lad," Oberyn said with all the subtlety of a Lannister waving gold in a pouch. "Especially given how the two of you have been carrying on-"

"We _haven't_ been carrying on!" I emphasized, focused on a map of the Red Keep Tyrion had drawn up for me. "I... We've been doing the exact opposite!"

"Which is the problem," Oberyn said with a grin. He reached down and cupped my chin, making me look him in the eyes. "She loves you," he said, with a... Gooey look in his eyes. I coughed and looked aside.

"Yeah, well..." I shrugged. "I can't do anything about that..."

Oberyn sighed. "Lad, I know for damn certain the Ironborn didn't instill this frustrating prudery into you. And the Starks are bad, but not _that_ bad. So tell me... Where'd you get this distressing habit of denying yourself a bit of fun?"

I thought it over. There were times when I still was convinced I was just someone from Earth in Theon's body. And yet, all the interactions with these people who had seemed fictional... And yet were now so _real..._ Made me second guess that. I didn't think I was the Earthborn person anymore... Or Theon Greyjoy. Who or what I was... I wasn't sure. And my drives... They were so blurred between what was original and what wasn't... But...

"... I sometimes think I'm making up for past sins... Or future sins," I admitted. Oberyn was silent. I took a deep breath. "In my mind, there's... What could have been... And there's what I could have done... And what I failed to do... And from the moment I was eight years old, it all seemed to... To crystallize."

The older man frowned. "Lad... You were eight years old. What could you have done to warrant this?"

"I guess," I began, working it out in a way that made sense to him... And myself. "I guess it was this feeling that... That I had so much to make up for. That I was a hostage thanks to my father's ways. Ways that had caused war and death and misery... And in that moment, when I was staring at what was going to be my home for the rest of my life, I... I realized I didn't want that to happen again. I wanted Greyjoy to mean _something_ more than reaver, or pirate, or war and pain..." I sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

Oberyn chuckled. "Bit of a martyr complex... With father issues. I figured it was something like that."

I looked at him sharply. He grinned again.

"Lad, you've had a full head of steam since you reached Winterfell. That I know. And I'm guessing between your two fathers, you tried to please the one who would most likely return favor. Did he?"

"... Eventually," I admitted. Ned Stark was not prone to emotional moments. This made his hugs and his smiles and his pats on my shoulder, rare as they were, all the more precious.

"But he's dead now," Oberyn said. "And it's clear at this point, ya just love bein' clever... But it doesn't mean you need to forsake everything else." He shook his head at me. "And if you're worried about politics and marriage... Let me be clear. Even if you knock up Amarda... Or any other girls, Arianne will still be happy with you. If you yank your head out of your arse, that is." He patted me on the shoulder, and gave me a hug. A hug that lasted a bit too long, but I didn't mind that...

"Oberyn-Hand off my ass or I'll break your wrist."

"Is that a promise?"

"GAH!"


	22. Royal Navy, LXV, LXVI

The Ironborn Fleet usually numbers around 150-250 ships. ****

The Royal Fleet numbers around 300-350 ships. ****

The Royal Navy of the North numbers around 100 ships-As said, fewer than its contemporaries but makes up for it with more advanced technology.

 **Royal Navy of the North**

 **Order of Battle**

-Ship Designations are based on size, role, and special attributes. Sail plan is generally related to size and type, though changing that is not a change in type but of role (IE, a Brig with a Schooner sail plan is still a Brig but is serving in a role requiring high speed). **  
**-"Class" is based upon general layout and initial schematics, though as more of the class were constructed changes were introduced throughout the fleet to make improvements. ****

*Designations: **  
**-I = Ironclad **  
**-S = Steam **  
**-D = Destroyer (Essentially a first-rate ship of the line but Theon coined the name and it stuck). **  
**-BB = Brig (A common larger-sized vessel that makes up the backbone of the Northern Navy-Fast, agile, heavily armed and good for general purpose missions) **  
**-FG = Frigate (Smaller than a Brig, bigger than a carrack, usually with three masts and designed for combat primarily-Recent development) **  
**-CR = Carrack (Easily the most common small-sized vessel in the Northern Navy, primarily tasked with logistics since it can go up rivers, fire support, and escort duties) **  
**-SL = Sloop (Small, fast, primarily used for reconnaissance and courier duties). **  
**-RD = Raider (General designation for any smaller coastal ships and boats that are fast but heavily armed. Usually not recorded as officially as ships of the line). ****

Sail Plans can be changed depending on mission or captain's prerogative. Vessels that have appeared in the story are **bolded.**

- _Seawolf-_ class ironclad. **  
**Heavily armored, steam powered ironclad-First of her kind, flagship of the North Eastern Fleet **  
**Vessels: HNMS ** _Seawolf_** _,_ HNMS _Eddard Stark_ (Under construction at White Harbor). **  
**Designated "Ironclad Steam Destroyer" ISD-01, ISD-02 **  
**Home Base: White Harbor. ****

- _Lady Amarlyis-_ class Brig **  
**First brigs built under the Navy Decree by Lord Eddard Stark in AC 295, older but still large and functional warships. **  
**Vessels: HNMS _Amarylis, Lady Catelyn, Lady Lyanna_ **  
**Designated: BB-01, BB-02, BB-03 **  
**Home Base: White Harbor ****

- _Season-_ class Brig **  
**Smaller, cheaper version of the _Lady Amarylis_ design, better suited for Deepwood Motte's shallower harbor. **  
**Vessels: HNMS _Winter, Summer, Spring_ **  
**Designated: BB-04, BB-05, BB-06 **  
**Home Base: Deepwood Motte Harbor ****

- _Winterfell-_ class Brig **  
**Larger, more robust class of brigs built under contract at Bear Island Harbor and White Harbor **  
**Vessels: HNMS _Winterfell, White Harbor, Dreadfort, Deepwood Motte, Rillback, Ursoton_ **  
**Designated: BB-07, BB-08, BB-09, BB-10, BB-11, BB-12 **  
**Home Base: Bear Island Harbor/White Harbor ****

- _Regions-_ class Brig **  
**Streamlined, general purpose brig design usually using a schooner-type sail plan. Also split between Bear Island and White Harbor **  
**Vessels: HNMS _The Wall, Rilles, Barrowlands, Wolfswood, Neck, Skagos, Stony Shore, Gift_ **  
**Designated: BB-13, BB-14, BB-15, BB-16, BB-17, BB-18, BB-19, BB-20 **  
**Home Base: Bear Island Harbor/White Harbor ****

- _Builder-_ class Brig **  
**Larger and with more cargo capacity than other brigs, mainly function as logistics command ships but still heavily armed and fast. **  
**Vessels: HNMS _Builder, Breaker, Biter, Bolter,_ ** _Pride_** **  
**Designated: BB-21, BB-22, BB-23, BB-24, BB-25 **  
**Home Base: Bear Island Harbor/White Harbor/ _Biter_ at Deepwood Motte ****

- _King Roderick-_ class Brig **  
**Experimental but functional brig used as test bed for Bear Island's Frigates. Fast and well armed. **  
**Vessel: HMNS ** _King Roderick_** **  
**Designated: BB-26 **  
**Home Base: Bear Island Harbor ****

- _Direwolf-_ class Frigate **  
**First purpose built combat vessel class, built using lessons from all previous vessels. Fast, well armed, use a schooner-style sail plan. **  
**Vessels: HNMS _Direwolf,_ ** _Longclaw, Grizzley_** _, Sea Dragon, Mammoth_ (Under Construction). **  
**Designated: FG-01, FG-02, FG-03, FG-04, FG-05 **  
**Home Base: Bear Island Harbor ****

- _Brandon-_ class Frigate **  
**Based on the _Direwolf_ -class frigates with a few improvements provided by the Manderly sisters. **  
**Vessels: HNMS _Brandon, Rickard, Benjen_ (Under Construction) **  
**Designated: FG-06, FG-07, FG-08 **  
**Home Base: White Harbor ****

- _Ice-_ class Carrack **  
**Basic class used by the Royal North Navy since inception. Well designed and continually upgraded, with numerous subclasses all counted under this entry for simplicity. **  
**Vessels: HNMS _Ice, Fire, Steam, Lava, Mountain, Snow, Flowers, Rain, Storm, Wind, Tree, Hill, Waters, River, Thunder, Lightning, Waterfall, Iceberg, Avalanche, Sand, Edmure, Hardback, Griper, Pike, Finback, Seal, Sealion, Shark, Whale, Dolphin, Tuna, Albatross, Razorback, Squid, Seasnake, Aurora, Shepherd, Geyser, Blizzard, Glacier, Mudskipper, Stingray, Sea Urchin,_ ** _Alligator,_** _Softshell (_ Under Construction), _Barnacle (_ Under Construction _), Seahorse_ (Under Construction), _Clameater_ (Under Construction), _Sea Nymph_ (Under Construction). **  
**Designated: CR-01 to CR-49 **  
**Home Bases: White Harbor, Bear Island Harbor, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square, Karhold, Eastwatch ****

- _Mermaid-_ class Carrack **  
**Class created by Karhold Shipwrights, the first such entry from their company. Basic but endlessly modifiable thanks to innovative standardized construction process. **  
**Vessels: HNMS _Mermaid, Otter, Searat, Flying Fish, Eel, Oyster, Turtle, Bass, Growler, Batfish, Cod, Steelhead, Albacore, Jack, Bonefish, Whaleshark, Hammerhead, Grouper, Salmon (_ Under Construction), _Flounder_ (Under Construction), _Bonesnapper_ (Under Construction). **  
**Designated: CR-45 to CR-65 **  
**Home Bases: White Harbor, Bear Island Harbor, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square, Karhold, Eastwatch ****

- _Dagger-_ class Sloop **  
**A small, advanced and sleek vessel capable of high speed actions on the coasts or at sea, they were the newest vessels launched in the North prior to the death of Ned Stark. **  
**Vessels: HNMS _Dagger, Dirk,_ ** _Dart_** _, Arrow, Bullet, Cannonball, Spear, Sword, Flayer, Fang, Claw, Razor, Javelin, Bolt_ (Under Construction) **  
**Designated: SS-01 to SS-13 **  
**Home Bases: White Harbor, Bear Island Harbor, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen's Square, Karhold, Eastwatch ****

- _Wanderer-_ class Brig **  
**Supply and support ship for the _Dagger-_ class sloops. Fast, decently armed, and equipped with mechanical cranes. **  
**Vessels: HNMS _Wanderer,_ HNMS _Messenger,_ HNMS _Auroch_ (Under construction) **  
**Designated: BB-27, BB-28, BB-29 **  
**Home Bases: White Harbor, Bear Island Harbor ****

Raider-type vessels have not received any designations, the number available to the Royal North Navy could be as much as one hundred but are not counted as ships of the line.

 **LXV: Meanwhile, in Winterfell...**

 _AC 300, The North, Winterfell  
_  
 **Dan Greenstone  
** \- - - - - -

There were days when Dan Greenstone regretted accepting that job as Theon Greyjoy's personal assistant. At the time, he'd just been doing the books for their mill down from Winterfell-And he'd taken into account how much more business they'd be doing with the improvements the Genius had installed with a crew of workers! Seeing this, Theon had asked if he'd like a job. At the time, Dan would have sworn Theon almost looked guilty about something... But he was too excited to turn him down! A chance to work for the Genius himself! He'd make _so much_ more flour than he ever had before!

And now, after five years of terror, stress, and difficulty, the teenaged lad now realized just _why_ Lord Greyjoy had looked so guilty: He knew this would be his life. Trapped in an office, when he wasn't forced to go to factories, dairies, warehouses, docks, or laboratories. Filled with people who constantly wanted him to solve their problems.

"Yes, yes, I will tend to the Dairy Guild tomorrow..." He wrote off a missive to a secretary, who quickly ran off. The next petitioner came up, an older man with a bushy mustache with a strange, dome-shaped cap. He couldn't recall the name-Some new style, blah blah blah, he didn't care.

"Mr. Greenstone, the progress reports on the new iron mill at Lake Town," the man said. Dan groaned.

"That's not for me! Hand it to the Industry Master!" He insisted. The mustachioed man nodded and frantically ran.

"Of course, my apologies!"

Dan groaned and looked over the requisitions. He'd divided the tasks as much as he could to underlings, but the weight of his office and _name_ ensured that, since Theon Greyjoy wasn't here to solve these problems, they'd come to _him.  
_  
Dan Greenstone had to hammer out accords between mining and lumber yards, while ensuring the Old God worshippers wouldn't raise Seven Hells!

Theon Greyjoy got to go to war and become a hero!

Dan Greenstone had to explain to Lord Bran _why_ he couldn't let his little brother ride his direwolf through the pig fields!

Theon Greyjoy got to shoot those smarmy Lannister cunts in the face!

Dan Greenstone had to correct the requisition form errors for the payroll of the Mechanic School Instructors, because his scribes were all fresh from public school's teat!

Theon Greyjoy got to go to a wedding with some of the hottest women in the Seven Kingdoms! Sure, he'd been shot at, but that didn't make it any less unfair!

"Mister Greenstone-?" His secretary asked timidly. Correction, his _head_ secretary-Miss Rayna Snowbell, if he remembered correctly. That bit of searching for her name kept him from biting her head off.

"Yes... Miss Snowbell?" Dan managed.

"Your four thirty is here," she said, pointing to the private office. He sighed as he rose, leaving the main work area of the Benjen Stark Building. It was the largest non-castle building in Winter Town, with a warm level in the caverns beneath the castle and three more stacked up on top of eachother. It was boxy and simple, yet painted with murals of the mountains and the sea-Dan didn't really understand it, but it had made Theon Greyjoy's foster family happy, so why not?

Though given how fast buildings were going up around here, the mural might soon be covered up.

He entered the cluttered interior of Theon Greyjoy's private office. It was very fitting, Dan supposed with an internal growl-Covered in books, pictures, strange drawings, with _no consideration for poor Dan Greenstone,_ and there was an extremely beautiful, buxom redheaded woman sitting in the chair across the desk with a warm smile.

"Hello, Mister Greenstone," she said with a purr. "I am Marion Hill. I am the proprietor of the Haystack Hall."

"And... I can do... What for you?" Dan asked flatly. Marion blinked, taken aback.

"Ah... My employees and I have seen your service," she said, "and we would like to offer you the chance to visit our establishment, no charge whatsoever, for some... Meetings-"

"Meetings?!" Dan demanded, slamming his fist on the desk and making Marion jump. "Have you any idea of what kind of meetings I have to attend to?!"

"Uh-" Marion tried, but Dan continued his rant.

"I have five factories to visit and yell at people in the next two days, six shipments of cannons that need their paperwork sorted out before they are shipped south, five different disputes between various brewer guilds over who has the rights to DrunkTheons latest manuscripts for something called 'Vodka' ... I don't have time for this shit!"

"Sir! We're offering you the chance to enjoy yourself, for _free!"_ Marion spoke harshly. "You've been an inspiration to the North and we've seen you never take time off-"

"Oh?! For free?! Except of course for the contract I'll have to sign, and the budget items to report-!" Dan said angrily. Marion growled and slammed her own hands down on the desk.

"We're happy to _screw you! For free!"_

"So is the head of the Mechanics Guild, and I'm not falling for that again!"

"I _meant literally!"_ Marion growled. Dan shook his head.

"So did they! Now, if you'll excuse me...?"

Marion huffed, and retreated from the office, slamming the door behind her. Dan resumed his work, grumbling to himself.

" _How in the hell_ am I supposed to get a damn thing done here if incredibly hot women are trying to get me to come down to their ..."

Dan Greenstone blinked. He blinked twice more. He ran Marion's words through his head once more.

He vaulted over the desk, yanked open the door, and ran to Miss Snowbell's desk. He slammed down the paperwork he hadn't gotten done.

"Taking the rest of the day off! Be back tomorrow! Reschedule everything!" He cried, running after the retreating Marion. "Mistress Hill!"

Marion turned and glared at him. "Yes, Mister Greenstone?" She drawled. He bowed his head.

"I am... _Terribly_ sorry for my rude behavior and I desperately wish to apologize and dearly hope your offer has not... Um... Expired?" He asked, trying not to look too pathetic. Marion sighed, and patted his hand.

"Dear... At this point, I will consider it a duty to the North," she said solemnly. "Now come along! First round is on me!"

"Drinks or-?"

"Yes," Marion said with a nod.

Sometimes, it _didn't_ suck to be Dan Greenstone, the boy with the weight of nations on his shoulders mused, as he allowed the prostitute to lead him to the brothel.

 **Omake: Extra! Extra! Read all about it!**

*Note this takes place during the approach to Harrenhal in XXXIV: Westeros Wedding Crashers. Part 4

Tyrion Lanniser was becoming increasingly convinced that his very existence was a joke to a God - or Gods. That they took some kind of delighted pleasure in throwing problems into his path simply to be able to sit back and enjoy watching his brilliance in dodging around them, under them, over them or even through them in one or two cases. The idea made such perfect sense when he looked at this life and everything his 'beloved' family had done to make it as 'interesting' as possible.

Truly, only a divine power could have such a sense of humor.

In his hands was a copy of the Westeros Despoiler. Which was not unusual; the newspaper was both an invaluable source of information on the North and just genuinely interesting to read. While it was now illegal to own a copy of said newspaper, said law naturally did not apply to the small council of the realm, for whom it was ironically their best source of intelligence on the North - to the private annoyance of the Master of Whispers Tyrion was sure. And while his father was keen to keep these Newspapers out of the hands of the loyal smallfolk (an entirely futile effort Tyrion knew, but he had seen no reason to point out how idiotic his father was being in making the order) he did insist on the latest issues being smuggled to King's Landing as soon as possible by couriers.

But his Father did not rule here.

Deep in the Riverlands with the massive ruin of Harrenhal falling away behind him, Tyrion, his Uncle and his impossibly cheerful bodyguard Bronn were now surrounded by heavily armed Northerners, whose thunderarms were only being kept slung and not pointed at them because they were under a flag of truce, on their way to witness the wedding of Robb Stark to Margaery Tyrell. And when he had seen that Dacey Mormont was carrying a copy of the Despoiler and clarified it was in fact the newest issue, he had asked and she had had no problem with tossing the paper to him casually.

Then he read the first two pages...

file/d/0B0uhNSpHk-hBb1JtRGxXQ0NDQ0k/view

 _ **(Two pages of newspaper text, can't be copied, as they include photos.)**_

So.

Robb Stark had had one of his Captains engage in a little slaving ... and had personally executed said Captain, hung several others and broadcast this fact loudly to the Realm to send a pointed message about what he thought about dealing in human lives?

And now both he and his Uncle were committed to riding into said Starks wedding, in the full knowledge that his Father had _just_ finished shipping many hundreds of Northern prisoners of war off to Essos in exchange for slave soldiers?

Yes, Tyrion thought tightly to himself as their horses plodded along the road from Harrenhal to High Heart and then Riverrun, _whichever God thinks my life is their entertainment has truly outdone themselves this time..._

 **LXVI: Keep it Simple, Stupid! Part 3**

 _AC 300, the Riverlands, Maidenpool_

 **Theon  
** _  
_\- - - - - - __

The bonding was complete. Now all that was left was for the concoction to dry. I studied my latest work-Five dozen spheres, hardened sucrose layers with a few other add ons. In the core of each though wasn't a bit of candy: It was a tiny bit of nitroglycerin and nitromattin, with a mix of a few agents to keep it stable. Just stable enough that rattling around in a pouch would not set them off-But throwing them at a wall or something hard would. __

They were too small to bring down walls or much else, of course. I'd devised them as an extra trick up my sleeve for distractions or attack in a simple, easy to smuggle package. I sighed and rubbed my temples, relieved I could finally come out from behind my ironwood barrier. I inspected the balls carefully, put a "DO NOT TOUCH UNLESS YOU WISH TO DIE" sign up, and headed out of the lab to the shower. It wasn't as impressive as it sounded-Just a few buckets of water suspended above me with plugs you pulled to wash off-but it was standard safety precaution and I was all about those! __

Most of the time. After all, going to talk to the woman you cared deeply for, about volatile things, was not usually safe. __

I wandered the halls of the castle, not really seeing anyone or anything else. I found Amarda's quarters, cleared my throat, and knocked on the door. She primly answered, looking surprised. __

"Ah! M-My Lord," she said formally. "I... I did not expect you-" __

"I know," I said. "May I come in?" __

She nodded, and parted the door. I entered, and looked around her quarters. They were small, neat, and well kept: Almost the opposite of mine save in space. She pulled up a chair, and I sat in it. She took another chair, and sat across from me. Measuring off the distance between us with an intense focus. Only then did she look at me, hands in her lap, trying to look businesslike. __

"Amarda..." I began, "I... The thing is..." __

"I know," she said softly. "Save the world first. Then. Anything else." She sighed. "Duty, above all else..." __

"Yes," I admitted, "that's... Kind of it. My main motivation for... Ya know..." __

"Rejecting me?" She asked, expectantly. It clicked in my head: _She was expecting rejection!_

"Rebuffing!" I said quickly. "Which is not the same! I..." I sighed. "You know my feelings, Amarda-" __

"I can guess," she said softly. "Parts of it. The back and forth though. And seeing other women-" __

"That didn't happen as you think it did," I said quickly, "and Osha's backed off. She recognizes our traditions are different." __

 _For now,_ a cynical part of my mind pointed out. I decided to ignore it. __

"It was quite the show nevertheless," Amarda replied, eyes narrowing. "And I doubt Princess Arianne would care... So long as she got what _she_ wanted." __

"That... That's another complicated thing," I admitted. "But please, Amarda-" __

"I can see two possibilities," Amarda said, in a stiff tone, "your sense of duty overrides anything else-Which I can understand, and yet the duty is... Unclear." She shook her head. "The other possibility: You are lying to spare my feelings because you care for me, but not in that way-" __

"Or!" I interrupted, grasping her hands, "or, there's something much bigger going on... Something that I've had to keep secret." __

Amarda blinked. "... And that is?" She asked. __

I sighed, and rubbed my forehead. I'd gone over this in my head when I hadn't been focusing on the explosives-But so far, it all seemed so... Awful. __

 _Hi, I have the memories and massive knowledge of a person from a civilization in another universe where your entire existence is fiction! Maybe!_

I closed my eyes, took deep breaths. __

 _I must not fear... Fear is the mind killer..._

My eyes popped open, and inspiration hit me. I looked her dead in the eyes. __

"Amarda, the truth is... This knowledge I got isn't... Entirely mine," I admitted. "I... When I was eight... My mind was just... _Overwhelmed_ with knowledge. Information on science, technology, a world long gone..." __

Amarda blinked a few times. "Valyria?" She asked softly. I shrugged. __

"Maybe... I don't know how it happened. I don't know why... But with this knowledge came... Came a warning. A warning of the future... That something was coming back. From Beyond the Wall," I explained. "Something horrible... Something that I needed to push the North into industry and technology _still_ centuries off just to deal with it." I took another deep breath. __

"My whole life," I explained, "I've wondered if I was just a tool for a mad god... If I was to be the savior of this world... Or if I just was... Was crazy. It's almost like this knowledge wants to take me over at times. That it wouldn't be _me,_ just... Just someone else, wearing me as a _suit."_

Amarda's eyes were wide, but she listened. I worked my jaw, and licked my lips. My mouth was dry. __

"And I... I worry that after I've done... Whatever I'm supposed to do... Or anything else... That I'll be done. That the price I'll pay for this knowledge and power is death, or love, or something worse. Or that I'll just keep slipping into madness... Unable to recognize anyone I know or... Or love." __

I sighed, and looked at the floor. "I don't... I don't really expect you to believe me-" __

"I do," Amarda said softly. I looked up in shock. She gave me a tiny bit of a smile-Exasperated and considering. __

"You... You do?" I asked in disbelief. She nodded. __

"It... Would explain things... Actually," she hummed, "a _lot_ of things... Did this vision also include signs of the future?" __

"A... A few," I admitted. "General ones... I'm amazed you're taking this so easily-" __

"This is a world of dragons, of unlocking fire and thunder in powder, and of shadows murdering kings," Amarda pointed out. "I have seen the impossible, of magic and of science, Theon... Why wouldn't I believe in visions?" __

"I... I just guessed that..." I mumbled. She sighed, and grasped my shoulder. __

"You took it upon yourself... Kept it to yourself... Out of fear of letting us down, or to protect us," she said simply. "Just like you _always_ do... I'm amazed you've stayed functional this long! Hiding _this_ from everyone...!" __

She really was brilliant. I gave her a sad smile. __

"I can be kind of an idiot, huh?" I admitted. Amarda nodded. __

"Yes... Yes you can," she sighed. She looked at me, considering. "Did any of your visions... Show me?" __

I shook my head. "Not... _You,_ specifically." __

"And how many of them have come to pass?" She asked. __

"Well... The War of the Five Kings did, Lord Stark's execution," I admitted. "A few other things... A lot of other things though have changed. Surprising, all told," I admitted. __

"You have said it yourself-Guns and weapons do not make history, _men_ do," Amarda said. "You've made much history, Theon, but kept it to us... Tried not to rattle things. Well... Now the future is not what you saw at first. It's all different now, isn't it?" __

"A lot is," I admitted again. She smiled at me warmly. __

"Then... Does that not mean that there is an element of free will? That the future can be what we make it? Why would you strive so hard to change things... If nothing would?" __

I stared back at her... And sighed. I smiled at her warmly. "You're right," I said, "I am an idiot." __

"No," she said, "Just... Just human. Habits you built to protect yourself, to get as much done as possible... They stayed with you." She flushed. "Just as habits to ignore... Certain failings in those I cared about... Are mine." __

"You spoke about my failings a lot-" __

"I mean the really _deep_ ones," she admitted. "The ones that... That hurt you... That I should have helped you with." She cupped my face, and in the light of the kerosene lamps she was just... Just gorgeous. __

"I know," I said softly. "Look... Let's just agree... That we both suck at this." __

She giggled a bit, and nodded. "Yes... Yes we do," she said quietly. She licked her lips. I stared back at her. __

Damnit, where was that courage either of us had to make the first move...? __

I leaned forward and pressed my lips to hers. She returned it bashfully, moving her lips awkwardly against mine... __

There was a knock at the door. I groaned. __

"Go away!" Amarda shouted. __

The knocking insisted. I sighed, and stood up to move-But Amarda wouldn't let me. She held me down in my chair with a stern look, and rose. She went to the door and opened it a crack... And Arianne Martell barged in, shutting the door quickly behind her. I had tried to hide, but the grin on her face made it clear we were had. __

"Your Highness... What can I do for you?" Amarda managed in a squeak, trying to look stern. She chuckled. __

"It's... More what I could do for you," she said. She held up an improvised periscope made of mirrors. "Did you know you can watch people through these outside the door?" __

My blood ran cold. Amarda moved for her gun... I held up my hand. __

"How much do you-?" __

"What, your heart to heart?" She shook her head. "Nothing... The breeze through the hall makes it impossible to eavesdrop. I suspect that was deliberate." __

"So... Why-?" I began, and Arianne chuckled. __

"Uncle Oberyn talked with me, too... About my approach... How things work between you two," she said, gesturing between myself and Amarda. "And watching you two _kiss...?"_ She shook her head. "Well! Now I understand what he meant. You two have _no idea_ how humans should kiss, and touch, and _fuck_ for that matter." __

She assumed a haughty expression. "So! As Princess of Dorne, it falls to me to educate you two in how these things are done." __

"But-!" I began, but Amarda glared. __

"We do not need your help-" __

"Ohhh yes you do!" Arianne said with a nod. "And you won't trust my intentions unless I'm straightforward, right? Well then... I do want Theon as a lover. Maybe my husband, one day. It would be useful to me... And he looks good." __

I flushed. Amarda scowled. Arianne shrugged. __

"It's just the truth... But you two! You love each other... So deeply..." She sighed, "it's like something out of a romantic epic! How could I interfere in such love? I mean, as in cutting you apart... I could, but you'd make me feel guilty about it." __

"Have you been drinking?" Amarda asked, sniffing the air. Arianne giggled. __

"Mayyybe just a little... Point is! Our cards are on the table... So here's my offer. I teach you two how to fuck, how to handle things without being so... So..." __

"Adorkable?" I asked. Arianne blinked. __

"I have never heard that word before... But it seems to fit," she said. "Not sure why..." __

"Don't ask," I muttered. __

"And in exchange?" Amarda asked flatly. Arianne smiled. __

"Consideration... Friendship... _Maybe_ marriage, at some point in the future... We'd have to see," she said. "And of course, I get fucked by two people I get to train into proper lovers! No bad habits to undo!" __

I don't think Amarda and I could have blushed harder. Arianne beamed. __

"If nothing comes of it... Well! Miss Honn, your husband will know how to please you. Lord Greyjoy! You are no longer a virgin-" __

"Hey, I'm not..." I trailed off at the snort Arianne and Amarda uttered-In unison. They stared at each other, and then back to me. __

"As I said... No longer a useless virgin," she continued, "and considering how dangerous this mission is going to be... Don't you want more incentive to return?" __

"I... Um... Amarda?" I looked at her. Amarda flushed. __

"I... Have obtained a supply of moon tea," she admitted. "You can trust me not to have your child-" __

"You didn't need to do that," I said quickly. __

"No, but I wanted to," she said. Arianne snickered. __

"That was obvious... But I can't allow you to get on with it without knowing how to do anything!" She held up her hand. "And I swear by our alliance, I will take moon tea after as well. Is that sufficient, Theon the Genius? Or can you and your assistant think of any other reason things should not proceed?" __

I looked at Amarda. I looked at Arianne. I considered everything I'd done... My thoughts, my actions... __

"Because I'm telling you right now, if you go to the barracks again," Arianne warned, "I will take Amarda for _my lover_. And you can't have her." She hugged Amarda and planted a kiss on the surprised woman's lips... A kiss Amarda resisted, at first, but a few strokes of her spine by the Princess of Dorne made her relax. __

And... Well... __

"... I think the terms are... Acceptable," I managed. Arianne beamed, breaking the kiss. Amarda was red from her hair roots to her toes, and trembling... But she too managed a nod. __

"Splendid!" Arianne said cheerfully. "Now, let's all sit on the bed and..." __

\- - - - - __

And needless to say, when we set out on the _Seawolf_ the next day... I was much more relaxed.


	23. LXVII, LXVIII

**LXVII: Expectations and Reality, Part 1**

 _Set a few days before Keep it Simple, Stupid! Part 3_

 _AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands  
_  
 **Margaery  
**

It had started almost innocently. Two weeks after their wedding, Robb had still been forced to rest by Healer Homestead. Margaery had agreed wholeheartedly, having quickly caught on to the fact that Stark men overworked themselves constantly. With much of the rest of the court busy preparing for the march to Harrenhal, though, she and Robb had been left alone... And while he was injured, he was still quite... Capable.

More than capable. Her grandmother had looked approving when she and her party departed back for Highgarden, which Margaery considered the highest praise for her new husband.

It was after one such capable meeting, as she laid next to him and stroked his beard, his arm securely around his waist, that the radio in the corner sputtered up and buzzed. Robb sighed, and made to rise. Margaery rested a hand against his still bandaged shoulder, and shook her head.

"I've got it," she said. "You rest."

She rose, naked, and walked to the radio. She enjoyed the feel of his eyes on her backside as she flipped on the transceiver.

"Queen Margaery speaking," she said.

" _Your Grace, I am sorry to intrude,"_ spoke the voice of one of the Frey boys-Margaery struggled to recall who, " _but Lord Walder Frey has an issue he insists will not wait."  
_  
Robb groaned. "If this is about the training regimen _again,_ tell him he can fuck off."

Margaery smirked. "His Grace the King would like to know more about the issue in question?"

" _Oh! Uh, it's..."_ She could just make out some rustling of papers, " _apparently dealin' with some o' yer Healers stickin' needles into his cows?"  
_  
Margaery frowned. "I see...?" She glanced over at Robb, who sighed.

"I'll be right down," he grumbled, and winced as he shifted. He held his shoulder, biting down his cry of pain. Alarmed, Margaery looked back to the radio... And found her mouth speaking.

"I will be down to deal with this soon. Please be waiting for me in the main hall," she spoke. Robb's jaw dropped, and Margaery held in a cringe as the Frey made approving sounds.

" _Of course, Your Grace,"_ he said. The radio buzzed, and Margaery turned it off. She looked in concern at her husband.

"It's probably nothing too severe," Margaery said, a bit defensively. She rose and walked over to him, gently pushing him onto his back. "And you need _rest."  
_  
"Ah... It isn't that," Robb said. "Just... Surprised you'd want to get involved so soon..."

"So soon?" Margaery asked, blinking. Robb looked up at her, and shrugged a bit uncomfortably. His eyes were drifting from hers-Something she'd learned he did when he was about to relate something he feared would make her unhappy. She quirked an eyebrow. "What do you mean, my _beloved_ husband?" She asked, with just the right bit of warning in her pitch.

"Well... I mean, taking the role of Queen so soon," Robb said. Margaery snorted.

"You've been working as the King almost non stop since we were _married,_ Robb," she said. "I believe I can handle _one_ disagreement. I am Queen in the North, am I not?"

Robb nodded. "Of course, but-"

"Then I can handle it for you," she spoke. "The Northmen respect strength, do they not? And I need to prove I have it, correct?"

 _Or at least pretend at it,_ she thought to herself, hiding her worry. Robb smiled up at her, and squeezed her hands.

"I think you proved that with your handgun well enough," he said earnestly, and her heart fluttered despite herself. She smiled warmly and kissed him, but pulled away before she could get lost in his warmth again.

"Yes... But this is something else I can do for you," she said. "Now..." She rose and moved to get dressed, feeling pleased with his disappointed expression as her naked skin was covered, "tell me about this needle sticking business..."

Brienne walked alongside her as they entered the Great Hall of Riverrun, the guards saluting her as she passed. She favored them with a warm smile, every one, and maintained her serene expression as she walked towards the chairs at the front. Standing in her way were two small crowds, separated by a tall man with bushy brown hair and a wide brimmed hat, his hand upon his gun. Robett Glover was his name-Margaery had met him at the wedding, a bannerman from Deepwood Motte as she recalled.

He and everyone else bowed at her-Save for Walder Frey sitting and grumbling on the right in his wheelchair.

"Your Grace," the expected voices spoke. She inclined her head, and walked between the groups to the great table of the hall. She took her seat, and the rest of the parties sat as well. Brienne stood to her side, comfortingly.

"King Robb is still recovering from his injuries," Margaery said, "and asked me to hear this issue in his stead."

There was some murmuring from the Freys, but the Northmen just nodded. A few actually smiled. She filed this away for later, as Walder Frey harrumphed.

"Well! Let's get on wit' it then! If you insist on this bloody mummery," the old man grunted. The man with bushy hair and hat stood again, clearing his throat.

"You'll have to forgive the situation, your Grace," he spoke. "It's a bit informal compared to how we do things up North... We'll have to go through it verbally." He nodded to a boy nearby, who was typing away at a strange contraption. "We'll still get the minutes though."

"I... See," Margaery said, maintaining her serene mask even as her confusion increased. "You may proceed."

"Thank you," Robett said. He cleared his throat. "Lord-Marshall Robett Glover, in the case of Lord Walder Frey of the Twins versus Healer Garris Grayson of Deepwood Motte. Lord Walder Frey is represented by Lord Walder Frey, Healer Grayson is represented by Defender Tommas Finch. Her Royal Highness Margaery Stark, Queen in the North and of the Trident, presiding... You may state your cases." He sat down to the side, as Walder growled and cleared this throat.

"Your Grace, these bloody men were stickin' needles in the livestock we brought what was t' be our food and wedding gift! And then stickin' needles in-in little Walder here!" He pointed to a younger boy among the Freys, who was avoiding looking at his great-grandfather or the Northmen. "And they said it was medicine! I say, it's cruel and some sort o' sick game to do to a young lad! Especially one King Robb himself offered a squireship to-"

"Objection," spoke Tommas Finch. He was a tall, thin man dressed all in black, with a crooked nose. Margaery remained silent, hiding her confusion, as he sorted through some papers from a square leather case, "the paperwork clearly states "Little" Walder Frey, son of Ser Jammos Frey and Sallei Paege, was to be an 'intern' at Winterfell, where his suitability would be determined forthwith for a vocation under the guidance and protection of the Royal Family."

He rose and carried the paperwork to Margaery, setting it in front of her. "I do believe this is the paperwork in question, Your Grace," the man spoke to her. The Frey patriarch balked.

"Wha-What's a bunch of papers got to do with what yer swordswallowers did t' Little Walder-?!"

"As this hearing is about the truth, I felt it necessary to point out to opposing counsel that simple accuracy is required," Finch stated, raising an eyebrow at the seething Frey. "To say that 'Little' Walder Frey is to be a squire to House Stark is inaccurate, as this evidence demonstrates. And as opposing counsel should well know, given they were delivered the evidence with ample time to read it."

"Evidence nothin'! Yer arguing about writin' shit down and not about yer lads bein' sick fucks-!"

Margaery cleared her throat, and nodded subtly to Brienne. She put a hand on her revolver, and both men fell silent.

"I believe," Margaery said, making a big show of reading through the papers, "that we can move onto the heart of the problem? And argue word usage another time?"

Finch nodded. "Objection withdrawn then," he said. He nodded to the fuming Frey. "Your statement..." He returned to his seat. Walder Frey looked up at Margaery, and seemed a bit sheepish.

"Ah... Yer Grace, I said pretty much everything needed," he said. "And an apology and some other concessions are what we wantin' for this!" He glared at Finch, and at Garris Grayson-A younger man who shaved quite well, with a large bulbous nose and short black hair. He was sitting a bit nervously next to the man in black, who now rose and stood in front of Margaery again. Finch cleared his throat, and held up a few papers.

"On the sixteenth day of Fifth Moon, Healer Garris Grayson saw several members of House Frey for a free medical examination. His own report, confirmed by Chief-Healer Homestead and Maester Greaver, indicated a risk of a minor redpox outbreak based on observations of cultures in the lab. From work by Healer Thorson, the recommended course of treatment was isolation of affected individuals and vaccination of other members of the household. The Frey party's livestock were, fortunately, suffering from the similar malady cowpox and vaccination procedures were carried out. On twenty-two of Fifth Moon, Healer Grayson was performing the vaccination of Little Walder Frey when Ryman Frey entered the tent and attempted to kill Healer Grayson-"

"I was protectin' my cousin!" The portly knight growled.

"-and was prevented from doing so by Lord Harrion Karstark, who is unfortunately not with us today due to his duties," Finch continued without missing a beat. "He did, however, leave us his written statement and signed and stamped it as his testimony, which has also been entered into evidence. Healer Grayson was merely doing his duty as a Healer of the North, and the Freys overreacted. Our argument is for dismissal and an apology from the Freys, and allowance for Healer Grayson to continue his duties. Thank you." He nodded to Margaery, and sat back down with Garris. Ryman Frey looked almost murderous, while Stevron Frey looked like he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes.

Margaery cleared her throat. "Very well... You may proceed," she spoke. She saw a bit of confusion in Finch's eyes... And then understanding.

"Of course, Your Grace," he said.

What followed was about three hours of Finch calling people as "witnesses" to talk about complex scientific things, and the Freys cursing them and arguing constantly (save for Stevron). Finch's experts held up charts and showed photographs of tiny things that were apparently swimming inside people and made them sick, as well as documenting the process of vaccination in such detail Margaery lost her initial fascination and became utterly bored. While the Freys just called up Freys to stand witness and hurl abuse at Grayson. Finally, Margaery had enough and stood up.

"With the _exhausting_ amount of evidence presented," Margaery said, "I believe that the Freys are the ones in the wrong and Ryman Frey acted inappropriately."

The Freys began muttering and arguing amongst themselves, but glares from Brienne and Robett silenced them.

"However, as this was the result of pure misunderstanding," Margaery went on, "and Ser Ryman's intent was only to protect his family, no rewards will be issued to Healer Grayson."

Walder Frey, at least, looked somewhat appeased. Finch hid his disappointment well.

"That said, as queen my responsibility is to the welfare of all the subjects of my realm," Margaery said carefully. "Therefore! My... Ruling is that Healer Grayson is allowed to do his work and will share this technique of vaccination with House Frey, so that such misunderstandings do not happen again. Further negotiation will be between Chief Healer Homestead and you, Lord Frey." She nodded. Finch patted Garris on the shoulder, as Robett rose.

"Ruling acknowledged, case closed," he spoke, as the young lad typing away nodded. "Court is adjourned!"

The Freys headed out, a few grumbling, while Finch lingered. Grayson smiled at Margaery in thanks, before he headed out... Very pointedly staying away from Ryman Frey, who was glaring in great anger at him. Little Walder Frey just looked relieved as he exited.

"You did well, Your Grace," Finch said politely, "for someone who had no idea how to do things."

"Thank you, Defender Finch," Margaery said, still serene but with a hint of an edge. She sighed and looked over at Robett Glover, who shrugged.

"Apologies, Your Grace," Robett said. "We were... Ahem... Under the impression you knew how to handle court procedure."

"How could she? She's been the Queen for _two weeks_ ," Brienne said in defense of her charge. Robbett held his hands up, forestalling her wrath.

"My apologies! I didn't know she didn't know-"

"But since this may come up in the future," Margaery said gamely, "I do believe I could stand to learn more, gentlemen?"

Robb was doing some kind of exercise involving laying down and sitting up to bend himself like an arm when she returned. He looked up at her, keeping his eyes on her as he sat up and laid down over and over.

"How did it go?" He asked.

"Resolved without blood, hopefully," Margaery said with a sigh. She gave him a bit of a glare. "You could have told me, you know."

"Told me what? Haa..." He continued his exercise, and Margaery lost herself in his sweaty, muscled chest for a moment.

"That you had to put up with _that_ ," she said. "Constantly. It's a wonder you haven't gone mad."

Robb paused. He gave her a sheepish look.

"Well... We were a bit... Busy," he admitted. Margaery shook her head with a blush.

"Yes," she said. "It just... Would be nice to know."

"Don't worry," Robb said, pulling her into a hug, "I'll keep the surprises to a minimum in the future."

"Well... Not all surprises are bad ones," she purred, nuzzling him.

They were quite busy for the rest of the day, which gave Margaery several fond memories to call on... When he did drop his next surprise a few days later.

 **LXVIII: Expectations and Reality, Part 2**

 _Set a few days after Keep it Simple, Stupid! Part 3_

 _AC 300, Riverrun, The Riverlands  
_  
 **Robb  
** \- - - - -

There were days it felt like he'd been waiting forever at Riverrun. Endless waiting, all for more guns, more men, more supplies. Then waiting to heal from his injuries, waiting to organize things... And then still _more_ waiting as more troops from the Riverlands and the Reach needed training in how to use thunderarms and march with them in formation. More waiting for ships to arrive with the sufficient materials.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. He was the King of Waiting, the King of Patience.

The King of telling others what to do... How to do it... Over and over again...

His mother entered the chamber, with Chief Healer Homestead. He saw another bottle of medicine in the healer's hands, another strained smile on his mother's face...

"Your Grace, it's time for your medicine," Homestead said. "Now, you know the drill: Just tip it back and-"

Robb calmly rose from his chair. He took the bottle of medicine. He set it on the table... And then neatly batted it through the window with his sword in a single, fluid motion. His shoulder pained him just a bit... But not enough to stop him. He turned with a glare at the healer, who sighed, and to his mother, who huffed.

"Robert Stark! I do not care if you are King of the North AND the Trident-You will take your medicine as your healer tells you to!"

"Healer Homestead, how much longer is it going to be?!" Robb demanded. Homestead sighed.

"Well, if you allowed me to examine you," the middle aged man said, "I could determine that, Your Grace." He eyed the sword. "On the other hand, given your dexterity... I'd say you're well on the mend."

"Good enough for riding?" Robb demanded. Homestead managed a nod. "Good... Then it's time."

"Robb, you don't have to-" Catelyn said, but Robb shook his head.

"Mother... All this waiting has been so that when we _do_ march on King's Landing... We stop for nothing. We don't stop until we get to the Red Keep and drag that hideous chair out to be melted down into children's toys," Robb stated, almost growling like his wolf did. Grey Wind had been absent for a time-Robb knew he didn't have to worry too much, but it was still agitating. "And one more man or one more gun or one more can of food, at this rate? No... It won't matter. This has to end, _now."  
_  
He went to the radio, and flicked it on. "Hello?"

" _Your Grace?"_ The bannerman at the radio today answered: Torrhen Karstark, he believed.

"Send to all commanders-We're moving out," Robb ordered. There was a pause... And he heard the young boy's smile.

" _Yes, your Grace!"  
_  
Robb turned back to his mother and his chief healer. "Now," he said, "if you'll excuse me... I've got an army to prepare and a war to win."

Healer Homestead sighed, and handed him another bottle. He took it. "Take a sip, twice daily," he said. "No more than that or you'll risk hurting yourself worse."

Robb nodded. "Thank you Healer."

He turned and headed out, muttering under his breath about headstrong kings. The door shut behind him, leaving the two Starks alone. Catelyn sighed, and gave her eldest son a hug. He returned it tightly.

"Be safe, my son," she murmured.

"I will mother," Robb said. He rubbed her back. She chuckled, and looked up at him fondly.

"You and Theon... Always so headstrong, so difficult," she sighed. "But I do know... Your father would be proud of you both."

Robb's smile widened. "Thank you Mother..." He paused. "And... I have another job for you, while in the North."

"Oh?" Catelyn asked.

 **Margaery**

There was little fanfare, little celebration in the camps around Riverrun-Save for the Dornish contingent, but then they were almost always merry. The Northmen, and even the Riverlanders, all prepared in a business-like, professional manner. Margaery stood with Robb and his small council and generals, overlooking the activity from a tented stage while alternatively pouring over a map. Frankly, she wasn't sure why Robb had her here-When it came to politics, of course she was there. But military planning was not her skill, it was his.

She was comforted, as always, by Brienne's presence: Her ever faithful shadow.

"... Lord Bolton, have your raiders ride for Sow's Horn. Hit Ivy Inn and Brindlewood, then split off as many as you need-But the majority need to head for Tumbler's Falls," Robb said, pointing at the town in question near Stony Sept. He looked to the Lord of the Dreadfort. "I want as much attention off the Blackwater as possible though."

"Understood, your Grace," Lord Bolton said with a nod. Robb looked to Rickard Karstark, who was looking much more solemn these days. His son, Harrion, stood with him expectantly.

"Lords Karstark, your forces will support these raids and Lord Bolton's forces. The Lannister and Baratheon forces are soon to move: I want them heading for Maidenpool or Harrenhal. Hold them, but do not force an engagement."

"You mean, run?" Rickard Karstark growled. Robb shook his head.

"No... The jaws of the trap," he said. He pointed to the confluence of the Blackwater Rush's tributaries. "We're taking the Golden Road, around here. Not all of the Lannister's sworn houses have heeded in support of the war. We cut off this lifeline, and force Joffrey to commit his forces to strike us. Depending on the ground... We can trap his army, destroy it, and take him captive." He looked up at his men, and smiled at their understanding. "I don't know when or where we will pull them here... But in this area, we will finish this, and march to King's Landing."

He looked to Bolton and Rickard, "and you must be there to close the trap and ensure victory. Can you do this?"

Rickard and Harrion nodded. "Yes, your Grace!"

Bolton simply nodded. "Yes, your Grace."

"Good," Robb said. He looked to General Ryswell. "General, the First Brigade rides with me. I trust they are rested and ready?"

"Absolutely, Your Grace," said Ryswell. Robb nodded.

"Very well. Let's go to work, gentlemen," he stated. His men headed out, their boots clunking as they went down the steps to the courtyard and about their business. Robb let out a sigh, and Margaery took his hand. He squeezed it.

"And you... My queen... Have a bit of a different job ahead of you," Robb said. Margaery sighed.

"I know... Manage Winterfell, stay away from all this excitement," she said. "Worry for you..." She stroked his forearm, and he smiled warmly at her.

"Well... Something a bit more substantial than that," he said. He rolled up the map, and handed it to Little Walder Frey: Who took it and the other papers and quickly packed them away. Robb motioned Margaery to her chair, then looked out the tent flaps. He motioned someone forward. It was Torrhen Karstark, standing at attention with his Viper shotgun over his shoulder.

"Mister Karstark," Robb said, "please inform the reporters that the queen is ready to accept them."

"Reporters?" Margaery asked, raising an eyebrow. She had no time to question this, before Eddard Shorthand and a number of other reporters from the _Despoiler_ and a few others entered.

"Your Grace, Queen Margaery," Eddard Shorthand said with a bow, "how do you feel about being named Regent of the North during King Robb's absence?"

Margaery froze for a second. She looked at Robb, who seemed a tiny bit sheepish. She focused a cold look on him for the briefest of moments, but pulled up her serene mask with the ease of long practice.

"Why, I am of course overjoyed and flattered! My royal husband, _trusting me_ with such influence? I can only hope I do right by the people of the North," Margaery managed, while internally she was screaming in terror.

More interviews, several photos, and much calming meditation later, Margaery confronted Robb in their bedroom in Riverrun. She had the presence of mind to shut the door securely behind her, before she turned on Robb with a glare.

"A little _warning_ would have been appreciated before you threw me to the wolves. Quite _literally,"_ she growled. Robb blinked, confused.

"What? I... I had just made the decision this morning-"

"And you couldn't have spared _five minutes_ to tell me?" Margaery continued, her eyes like daggers. A deep part of her felt pleased when he hesitated and looked sheepish.

"Um... I thought... It would be a nice surprise?" Robb managed.

"Robb, exactly what experience do I have to be _Queen?"_ Margaery demanded. "I-I don't-I've never-!" She frowned. Robb sighed, and shrugged.

"Neither do I, and I've been doing it for over a year now," he said. "But the fact of the matter is, Margaery... The Queen in the North can't just be a figurehead." He reached out for her, and she resisted, but he managed to get her into a hug and look her in the eyes. "My mother is... She's not the best administrator."

Margaery nodded gently, not being too open with her feelings.

"Theon's busy with his own mission... And Bran, while he's been _trying_ to manage things back home, is still barely out of being a child," Robb admitted. "I need someone I can trust."

"You barely know me," Margaery said softly, feeling uncommonly vulnerable. What was it about these Starks that got under her skin? Was this true love she felt? That made her feel the need to be honest with him? It felt like... _Weakness,_ and yet she was unwilling to despise the sensation while in Robb's arms.

"You killed for me," Robb said, holding her tightly. "I've killed for you. What more do you need to do for me to trust you?" He smiled warmly at her, and kissed her cheek. She hugged him back slowly. "Besides. You're the granddaughter of the Queen of Thorns. What have you to fear?"

Margaery wanted to say that she only knew how to rule _behind_ the scenes, pull strings on the players involved. To be subtle and hidden, and let the man take the actions. That was how Olenna handled things. Being named _regent_ for an entire _kingdom..._

 _What does a Tyrell do?_ She recalled her grandmother asking. And she knew the answer by heart.

 _Grow stronger.  
_  
She tightened her hug, and looked up into Robb's eyes. So full of warmth and care... And yet savagery. She stroked his cheek.

"Nothing... Save that you do not return," she said softly. Robb smiled, took her hand in his, and kissed it.

"Then fear no more... I will be back. And by then... We can talk about baby names," he said. Margaery laughed.

"Is there some kind of Northern science that lets you see if I am with child?" She teased. Robb shook his head.

"No... But given how much we've fucked? I think that's a good bet," Robb admitted. Margaery licked her lips.

"Then make absolutely sure, so we can have that conversation," she purred, pouncing him to the bed.

The next day, early dawn, Margaery stood with her goodmother and Brienne, watching from the stage as Robb mounted his horse. His officers and aides followed suit behind him, General Ryswell right at his side like Grey Wind. Where the wolf was, Margaery didn't know: She'd grown fond of the big, hairy beast-But Robb hadn't been worried, so she maintained the same composure.

Robb had given up the armor of a knight, as had many of the other lords: Rather, he was in a long gray coat, with armor plates stretched over the chest and a few other places. He wore no crown-Just a gray helmet, plain and simple. The only marker on him with color was a strange, light flag mounted on his back-With the bloody, snarling head of the Stark direwolf symbol. Many others wore similar banners, many others were resplendent in traditional armor or their own takes on the Royal Army's uniform with bright reds, greens and yellows.

Yet on his steed, his guns and sword at his side, the dawn shining over him... Robb was breathtaking.

Robb had his horse trot up alongside the stage, giving his mother a quick hug, before he smiled at her. Margaery returned it, and bent over to tie her scarf to his neck. He then pulled her into a kiss, one she gladly accepted-Even as a number of onlookers, soldiers and civilians, cheered and hooted. She broke it first, but added a caress to his bearded cheek.

"Fight bravely, my love," she murmured. Robb gave her a smirk that made her insides tremble and moisten.

"It's the only way I know how," he growled back confidently. He rode out, his officers following, to the head of the troops. Margaery left the stage and went up to the battlements as fast as she could, Brienne, Catelyn and others behind her. She made it to the wall and looked out as she saw Robb and his party take their place at the head of the column.

" _ARMY OF THE TRIDENT!"_ Robb bellowed, drawing his sword. " _FORWARD!"  
_  
"Forward!" "Forward!" "Forward!" Replied the troops, echoing off the castle walls.

" _MARCH!"_ Robb bellowed, and the band wagon started up. It was a jaunty tune, something Margaery had heard in the camps of the men before. But with the entire army moving, feet stamping, horses whinnying, canteens and armor rattling and banging, it felt more like a symphony. A symphony of war.

"Come back safe," she murmured, as she watched them march. She stayed there until Robb vanished over the hills, but lingered on a bit longer until the army was mostly gone. Only then did she turn and walk down to the Great Hall, to take her meal in silence.

She too, had her own march to undertake soon.


	24. LXIX, and Omakes

**LIX: Meanwhile in Slaver's Bay, Part 4**

AC 300, _Port of Yunkai, Slaver's Bay, Essos  
_  
 **Kara Snow**

 **\- - - - - -  
**  
She hadn't signed up to be a hero, that was for sure. The daughter of a whore didn't get to be anything special. Not even in the New North. Her mother though, at the very least, didn't want her to spread her legs too. So she set aside enough money to get Kara entry into the Mechanics' Guild when she was twelve. Her small hands let her do delicate work. And in the early days of the industrial revolution, delicate work was prized. So she succeeded, got her license (a gear on a chain, what marked all qualified mechanics in the North), and went to work for House Bolton's petroleum refinery. She picked up bits of chemistry, and despite her employers bein' about as warm and friendly as cubes of ice in your cunt, they appreciated her skills.

Kara had become the chief mechanic on the Number 3 distillery tower, providing kerosene and everything else that could be made outta the oil to the North. She'd even helped out a bit with Lord Ramsay's War Wagons: And unfortunately had been witness to more than a few of his "tests" of his Flammenwerfer with bandits. It wasn't a lot of fun, even if they were rapists, bandits and murderers. Even if they _had_ gotten a fair trial.

The Dreadfort became a bit too... Familiar. Too confining. Too disturbing. So when the call came for mechanics for the war, she'd jumped at the chance. She'd gotten the chance to be transferred to the Support group: The Gear Wives, they were called. Lord Bolton put them to work, travelling with the banners: Fixing up guns, rockets, grenades, Bolters, cannons and anything else needed fixing. Figuring out how to build a pontoon bridge across the Green Fork. All sorts of problems.

Never meant to get involved in the battle. The raid on Duskendale had required some mechanical expertise, and Lucy Wren was fucking one of the nicer looking riders, so she'd volunteered when Lord Bolton's aide came to their camp. Off she went with the riders. One of the horny bastards tried to force the issue with her when she wasn't into spreading for him, so she'd told him off: With her wrench. That had made Lucy laugh, and the other riders too. They didn't make much issue with her after that.

They'd ridden out to the Lannister camp. She'd set some bombs, while the others made noise. They'd led the troops, right into the trap... But the stupid moron she'd cracked with her wrench had led the Bolton troops _right into the bombs.  
_  
And a lot of noise and blood later, she and Lucy were facing down a few Lannister spears.. Her shotgun for self defense suddenly too far away.

So of course they were taken by those assholes. Assholes who'd tried to spread their legs too. Bites and scratches and punches had convinced the assholes it would be a bad idea, so instead they'd been taken to King's Landing, trussed up in rope. Tossed into a improvised jail with a few hundred other Northerners. Most of them, she didn't know: Just Lucy, who clung to her like a limpet. Getting scraps of food thrown through the bars. A few more guards trying things with the Gear Wives got their shit wrecked-By her, or by her fellow Northerners. Weeks, months like this... Bits of the _Despoiler_ slipped in through cracks telling them that King Robb was getting closer...

Then one night, foreign soldiers came with pikes. They were taciturn, stern, silent. They herded them out of the shit smelling warehouses they'd been shoved into, down the street along the castle wall. A few had tried to escape, but the soldiers just _threw_ their javelins: And they were pinned. It was horrifying, even after what she'd seen.

And now, chained up, stripped naked save for her gear and chain, and clapped in irons, she'd been shoved into the filthy hold of a huge ship and forced to row. Row and row and row... Night and day just blended into nothing.

She tried to talk to her fellow rowers on the bench, but one was a recent Braavosi immigrant (she thought her name was Renia? She couldn't be sure) who barely spoke Westerosi, and the other girl, pale and blonde... Didn't speak. No matter what.

The only saving grace, the only thing that kept her going was Lucy. Where was she? What had happened? Was she okay?

She tried so hard to ignore the most likely outcome... But starved and chained up people seldom had a lot of hope.

It wasn't until... She didn't know... The guards came below. Not to whip them... Well, yes to whip them. But mainly to get them all up and shuffling, chains rattling. They were forced into the light, and Kara winced as the sun burned.

The air was hot and humid. Filled with smells she couldn't recognize, spicy and exotic, yet the scent of sewage was there too. Heavy enough it had to be...

Her eyes adjusted and she made out red walls and wooden docks. Towers gilded with copper, and people with dusky skin speaking languages she didn't understand... A vast desert stretching out where she didn't see city...

Yep... They were in trouble. Big, _big_ trouble...

 **OMAKE – Terminology**

 **Mechmen:** Corruption of _Mechanic_ , term for men certified through the Mechanics Guild. ****

 **Gear Wives:** Term for female mechanics and engineers in the North-Primarily those who have received their certification through the Mechanics Guild, easily recognizable by the chain necklace with a small iron gear they are gifted upon qualification. ****

 **Longcoats/Wolfcoats:** General term for Northerners in the rest of Westeros, due to the abundance of mass-manufactured clothing they wear-Usually, long coats made of wool. Often but not always gray. ****

 **Breachers:** Elite troops of the Northern forces, trained to take structures or ships from the inside and out. Named this by Ned Stark after Roderick Cassel's unit of guards broke into a bandit's hideout and eliminated them with the use of grenades to breach the fortified doors. Their unit symbol, often painted over their shields or drawn on their shoulders, is a thunderbolt cutting a door in half. ****

 **War Wagoneers:** Crew for the War Wagons-horse drawn and gasoline engine-driven carriages covered in armor and armed with flamethrowers, swivel guns, grenade launchers and Bolters. Used for armed reconnaissance and fast raid attacks. Conceived of and often led by Ramsay Snow. ****

 **Bolters:** Rotary cannon that fires hundreds of rounds thanks to its unique design. Brass and steel cartridges are usually used for the rounds, but black powder-filled cardboard cartridges are also used. Using cardboard cartridges, however, easily clogs the barrels with excess black powder after several firings, and so must be cleaned often. Designed and invented by Ramsay Snow. ****

 **Guilds:** Organized by Theon Greyjoy and Ned Stark for the purposes of educating workers in Science across the North, as well as maintaining standards and protecting the rights of workers. Under Ned Stark's authority but do work with local lords to maintain worker standards and relations. The first was the Mechanics Guild, and it still remains the most powerful. ****

 **Squidsilk:** Synthetic materials, such as plastics and nylon, derived from hydrocarbons. Invented by Theon Greyjoy. Still very rare due to the cost involved in manufacture. ****

 **Burners/Flammenwerfers:** Flamethrowers powered by various hydrocarbon-derived fuels. ****

 **Science:** Officially, the scientific method to understand the natural world. More specifically, any technology that's come out of the North or any knowledge derived from there: Spoken of in much the same way as magic. ****

 **Boom/Boomers:** Common Westeros term for explosives, particularly grenades. ****

 **Squids:** Derogatory term for Ironborn or anyone of the Iron Isles-With the exception of Theon Greyjoy, of course. ****

 **Thunderarms/Thunderers:** General term for any gun in Westeros. ****

 **Viper:** Generally, a shotgun. Not just the model name but for the twin barrels, given the resemblance to snake fangs. ****

 **Steelwood:** Treated ironwood from House Forrester's holdings. Used for Breacher shields, armor for warships, and in War Wagons. ****

 **Whistler:** Scoped sniper rifle. ****

 **Rocketfaust:** Primitive rocket-propelled explosive, created by House Karstark. Still limited in usage, given the tendency of the weapon to backfire, but deadly when it works properly. ****

 **Fireman/Dragonman:** Soldier who wields a flamethrower or burner in combat. ****

 **Crannogmen/Crannogwomen/Swamp Ghost:** Inhabitants of the Neck. The term has primarily become associated with those trained by House Reed as skirmishers, scouts and infiltration specialists. ****

 **BoomSquid:** Theon Greyjoy's nickname. ****

 **Seawolves:** Nickname for sloop crews, given the wolf pack tactics used. Also for crewmembers of the HNMS _Seawolf.  
_ **  
Abac/Abacus:** An accountant or other "numbers expert" employed by financial services in the North. ****

 **Crow Feet:** House Corvise boots, given the crow-logo for their boot production. ****

 **Pigball:** Football/rugby equivalent sport, with professional league set up across the North in AC 296. Has since become one of the most popular past times of lowborn and highborn in the North. ****

 **Glasses/Farseer:** Telescope or binoculars. ****

 **Aeronauts/Floatmen:** Observation balloon crews in the Northern Army. ****

 **Southron/Southerner:** Generally speaking anyone who lives in the southern part of Westeros, but primarily as anyone who is not a Northerner; often used in the same way as _foreigner.  
_ **  
Snapbox:** Slang for tintype cameras, popularly used in the North. ****

 **Ol Flint and Steel/Flint'n'steel/Flintguns:** Flintlock muskets, the first thunderarms produced on Westeros. Still very common despite advances in thunderarms thanks to their relative ease of construction.

 **Omake – Why Theon doesn't do Magic (1 &2) **

**Not Canon**

Theon: Seriously, the energy I'm willing to give up is more than enough to allow me to shoot fireballs! Or a bolt of lightning! Or withdraw the thermal energy from my target so it shatters into ice! ****

Luwin: Apparently the forces of magic prefer less... How shall I put this... Materialistic offerings? ****

Theon: Wha-I've worked out the thermal and kinetic energy in this explosion down to the last joule! What, the gods are fine with some worthless _blood_ and _flesh_ but won't take a damn release of energy?! Hell, I've worked out how they could take energy from the actual conversion! I don't need all of it, just a little! They get most of it anyway! All I'm asking is that they let me do it without me blowing my damn face off! ****

Luwin: No. Perhaps they prefer twisting the threads of fate over anything humans can quantify? ****

Theon: I'm offering the equivalent of hard currency, and they want market speculation! UGH! Screw it, I'm sticking to science!

Theon: Wait, wait... You got this... Entity... To accept thermal energy as payment for magical stuff?

Luwin: Yes... Apparently it was primarily interested in managing the energies between areas of greater and lesser energy. It can be persuaded to... In its own words... "Not look too hard" at such transactions, if we do the math correctly?

Theon: ... It isn't called Maxwell, is it?

Luwin: It... Apparently said you would ask such a question.

Theon: What did it say?

Luwin: That you were a "nerd" and a smartarse...

Theon: *sighs* Figures.

 **Omake – Bullets, Beans, and Boots**

Robb had been looking for an excuse - any excuse - to get away from the paperwork that went across his father's desk every day. Finding Theon wasn't much of an excuse but it was better than nothing. ****

It took him most of an hour according to the clocktower to find his foster brother. (The tower had been struck by lightning long before even Robb's father had been born - Theon had had it rebuilt to house the clock and Robb was sure he invented new swear words every time Bran took it into his head to climb up it). The Greyjoy was at the cobbler's scribbling on a piece of parchement while Danny took additional notes. ****

The cobbler had the familiar expression of someone seeing their livelihood passing through Theon's well-meaning hands and emerging as something they couldn't quite recognise. ****

"Well that's all very good, milord," the man said hesitantly. "But who would need thousands of boots? And they'd have to cost almost nothing for people to afford them." ****

"Heavy boots are important in workshops," Theon assured him. "There's a market, believe me. And if Robb needs to call the banners... well, what do armies march on?" ****

"Their stomachs?" asked Robb, vaguely recalling a conversation when he was much younger. ****

The cobbler gave him an odd look. "That sounds awkward, milord." ****

"Figuratively, he's right. But in practical terms -" Theon stamped his feet on the floor. "On these and - Robb! When did you get here?" ****

"Just now. What are you up to now?" ****

"If things go south... down south... then we'll need to raise an army for your father. And armies need three things, or three categories of things so just think of this as alliterative..." ****

Robb saw the cobbler's eyes start to cross. "Three things?" ****

"Bullets, beans and boots. Or to put it another way: weapons, food and clothes. Because armies turn roads to mud just by walking on them. So put the men in stout boots and you'll be at an advantage, marching the enemy into the ground!" ****

"nggggg." ****

"What?" ****

"Theon, say I call up twenty thousand soldiers... how are we going to _afford_ twenty thousand pairs of boots?" ****

Theon grinned broadly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Have I ever mentioned 'war bonds'?" ****

"I didn't know you and Ramsay were into that...?"

 **Omake – No Quarter**

The North has lost its Lord; to the Old Gods he has returned, **  
**To stand before the Weirwood, in the state his rank has earned. **  
**Our Lord needs an honor guard, an escort, and a crew, **  
**And if you're the best available, I guess you'll have to do. ****

No Quarter, NO QUARTER! You damn well earned your fate. **  
**Give Ned Stark our compliments; we're sorry you are late. ****

Ancient legends say the rank a fallen warrior held **  
**Depended on an Honor Guard of foes that one had felled. **  
**And so in tardy tribute to the one we couldn't save, **  
**We'll lay your fiery deaths like crimson flowers on his grave.


	25. LXX, LXXI

**LXX: Operation Virtuous Mission, Part 1**

 _AC 300,_ HNMS _Seawolf,_ _Near Dragonstone  
_  
 **Theon**

  
The _Seawolf_ was not exactly the most stealthy option for transit, but it was hoped that her appearance would draw attention away from our true means of ingress-A small cutter disguised as a fishing boat, common around Blackwater Bay. Pulling in at night would arouse little suspicion. Night fishing was a profitable, if difficult business. From there, Bronn would get us to the Goldcloaks Tyrion had bribed. Through Mud Gate, up to the Red Keep, and then to the captive princesses.

Nice. Simple. Easy. Very few moving parts, very few problems. We hoped.

Oberyn had provided some extra assistance in the form of a delegation of Dornish nobles showing their "loyalty" to the crown: By providing enough strong wine to the palace guards that their reflexes would be slowed. They'd also brought a lot of food, enough to make the wary City Watch drop their guard as things got leaner.

It was a good plan. Simple, straightforward, efficient... Yet as I watched from the prow of the _Seawolf,_ letting the sea winds wash over my face, I remained pensive. Thoughtful.

"There you are!" A jolly voice spoke, and a familiar hand clapped me on the shoulder. I sighed and looked over at Oberyn Martell. He grinned with bright white teeth, and spread his arms to show off his new attire-Goldcloak vestments. "What do you think? I make it look good, yes?"

"Every man and maiden from Dorne to the Wall just swooned right now," I said wryly. Oberyn laughed and hugged me.

"You do not act like a man who just had a night with two gorgeous women-One of whom knows what she's doing," the Prince of Dorne chuckled. I flushed.

"Your lack of tact should be studied-It will make all men far too honest for their own good," I retorted, pushing him back a bit. He laughed again.

"Ah, but then where will all our politicians go? And how will you keep things to yourself?"

I grumbled a bit. "I might take my chances..."

"Does the prospect of death looming over you concern you, my friend?" Oberyn asked, switching from jovial to serious so quickly I almost got whiplash. Martells were good at catching you off guard, I decided. "You have faced it before, have you not?"

"Well, yeah," I said. I rubbed the back of my hand-I still had burns from the Golden Tooth battle. Still sometimes dreamed of giant, steel strong hands trying to crush my skull. Not often, but... Enough. Maybe I had reached my quota of nightmares, given the visions of the future.

"It's never an easy thing, war," Oberyn observed. "Men dying, shitting themselves, falling apart..." He sighed. "A true warrior pushes it aside, does his duty... Finds joy, if he can..."

"Maybe that's the problem," I muttered. "Maybe I'm thinking of what _I've_ done for war."

Oberyn raised his eyebrows. "Explain," he said. I sighed, and rubbed my face. I looked out at the coast, where everything was coming together.

"The Lannisters have a few tactics available to them... But with Unsullied, it becomes painfully simple," I began, reciting what Robb and I had worked out a few nights before, "they are cannon fodder. Literally, in this case. The Lannisters will have to march them out in the open, and there are plenty of places to do that in the Crownlands. Out in the open, even a mile away from our lines, they'll be hit by cannon fire. Shot and shell. Even a few Whistler shots." I leaned forward a bit more, my eyes narrowed.

"They'll be slowed down by any obstacles-Fences, streams, muddy roads-And their formation, whatever's left of it... Will come apart. If they hold together long enough, they'll come into range of grenade launchers. Musket fire. Bolters and Viper canisters. Burners. Massed rifles... If they make it to our lines, there won't be many left. Fifty percent casualties, virtually guaranteed by the law of averages." I looked down at the water, not seeing my reflection in the water kicked up by the ship's bow.

"I've slaughtered so many people, Oberyn," I said softly. "My weapons have made it possible... War isn't about men and swords now... It's about who can kill the fastest. Who can kill most efficiently..."

Oberyn gave me a hug. I looked at him, and he smiled softly. He took hold of my hand, and put it on my revolver. I stared at him in confusion.

"If you were to shoot me," he said, "would you blame the gun? Or the hand that commanded it?"

"... Well, the hand-"

"Then why blame the weapon?" Asked Oberyn. He shook his head. "You've had such a martyr complex, Theon... This is blood you need not take onto yourself. You have two women who love you... Well, one at least. Arianne falls hard for men with dark pasts, but she comes back up sometimes... Point is! We live, we fight, we create, we destroy, we love, we hate, we fuck, we die. You can't change that, nor why people do it." He patted me on the back. "Have a bit of faith in yourself... Otherwise, what has all this science been for?"

I slowly nodded. "I... I guess..." I sighed. "I'll try-"

"Do more than try, Theon Greyjoy," Oberyn said seriously. "Do. Or do not. In this case, there is no try. We've got a pair of princesses to rescue: Keep your thoughts on that, hm?"

I worked my jaw... And nodded. "I... Yeah," I said, taking deep breaths.

"Good! Now, come down for a meal with those delicious Manderly sisters," Oberyn said cheerfully.

"Or...?"

"Or I'll make you question your preferences even more than you already do," Oberyn said happily, licking his lips. I very slowly pulled away from his hug.

"Understood," I said. He laughed hard.

"A more confident man might have called my bluff!" Oberyn gesticulated wildly, his eyes shining in the afternoon light. I rolled my eyes.

"A wise man knows _never_ to call your bluff," I replied. Oberyn laughed again, and headed across the deck, slapping a few surprised sailors on the ass as he went. They squawked or gawked after the man, and I shook my head with a grin.

I made my way down to the lower decks via ladder, passing by the small room Ramsay and Meera had taken over. I paused and walked back, peering in.

The two were... Doing a puppet show?

"Oh Jaime! Fuck me until gold pops out!" Ramsay squeaked in a girlish voice. Meera held up a finger puppet that was also blonde.

"We both know that won't happen, no matter how much we wish it to," Meera replied in a gruffer tone.

Both of my trusted allies looked up at me. Ramsay grinned.

"Hello Theon!"

"Lord Theon," Meera said, her cheeks turning a bit red. I raised my eyebrows.

"... I've pieced together what you're doing, but I'm not entirely sure _why,"_ I admitted. Ramsay grinned, and swept his hand over the table that was littered with paper-crafted finger puppets.

"I'm deciding just what kinds of puppet shows to do for the Bastard King when we get him," Ramsay said cheerfully.

"Most of them end with incest jokes, it's all very dull," Meera sighed. Ramsay glared, and threw a knife. Meera dodged it easily, and stuck her tongue out at him in a childish retort.

"I am an _artist!_ You just don't understand!"

"If no one can understand, it makes it nonsense! Not art!"

"Guys, guys," I said gently, "please: Get a room... Aside from this one. The crew would complain."

Meera blushed a bit. Ramsay shrugged.

"Well I've _offered,"_ he scoffed, "but the little Crannogwoman just _refuses_ to take me up on it!"

"I'm sworn to duty!" Meera huffed. "Besides, you're far too pale."

"I'm _porcelain,_ and it keeps my skin from developing blemishes," Ramsay said. He reached out to take my hand, and pressed it to his cheek. "Feel how soft it is, Theon?"

"Yes, yes I do," I sighed. I pulled back my hand, ignoring Ramsay's pout, "but I have to go to dinner or Oberyn will do unsavory things to me."

"... Could I watch?" Ramsay asked.

"No."

"Damnit," he muttered, as Meera blushed harder. I shook my head and stared at Meera.

"You _did_ watch me, Amarda and Arianne, didn't you?" I asked. "How can you still be blushing?"

"I-I did not! I just... Stood guard! I have _some_ standards, my Lord," Meera huffed. "And-And you didn't have to go on in such detail!"

"I blame Tyrion and Bronn, they demanded details," I said. " _Copious_ details... Now. I'm going to dinner. If you'd like to continue embarrassing us all and convincing the sailors of the North that we're all deranged, hedonistic crazy people, come along."

"Of course!" Ramsay said cheerfully. He snapped his fingers, and rummaged in his pockets. He pulled out a note. "Oh! By the way, a raven came for you. From Karhold's 'Area 42'?"

"What, that private experiment ground?" Meera huffed. "Why was it called that?"

"Some ancient Valyrian philosopher called it the most important number in the universe," Ramsay said with a shrug.

I took the note, and unfurled it. I pulled out a magnifying glass, and scanned the shrunk-down type. It not only allowed more words on the messages, but it made it harder to read for anyone without the proper equipment.

 _Mustang, Zero, Hellcat, Hornet, Tomcat: Enroute to ANTLERS._

 _Avenger, Thunderbolt, Eagle, Falcon: LOST. Investigating.  
_  
I frowned deeply as I lowered the message and the glass. Ramsay and Meera looked at me intently. I sighed.

"Well... Good news and bad news," I said. "If the Army runs into a nasty surprise by the Incest Spawn, we've got a few nasty surprises of our own."

Small, fast, lightly armed surprises that hadn't become possible until Eddard Karstark had accidentally figured out how to build a decent internal combustion engine. Indeed, I was still surprised they were possible-All I'd done was write out the numbers based on everything I could get my hands on regarding hydrogen storage and aerodynamics technology. It wasn't exactly something I expected to see in less than ten years. On the other hand, I was riding in a steam-powered ironclad that I hadn't thought possible either.

Never underestimate human ingenuity when they're given the basic plans and knowledge of nature to play around with. And a healthy budget. And a total disregard for anything resembling safety, or sanity.

"And the bad news?" Asked Meera.

"Same news," I said dryly.

"This have anything to do with those mini-Bolters you had me deliver there before I set out on my tour?" Ramsay asked. I smiled at my psychotic friend: He was very, very smart, after all.

"Plenty," I said. "And hopefully, you'll get to see positive results... But I want to keep it a surprise."

Ramsay nodded. Meera complied, still looking curious.

"In any event," I said, "let's get to dinner. I'm starving..."

 **LXXI: Songbird**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, the Red Keep_  
 **  
Cersei Lannister**

Useless, useless all of them! _Useless_!

She glared cold death as she stormed through the hallways. Meeting after meeting with her advisers, and her options were the same. Yes, her advisers. Her father's death and her son's foolishness made them hers. All hers.

All this power, now, and... What _good_ was it? When her realm was reduced to one loyal, bleeding _kingdom_! When her own brother had turned on her! As if she expected anything less from that odious dwarf…

Well. He'd serve his purpose. He'd never know, either. His own little escape route, the coward… Now it was hers. As long as she had her last weapons. As long as she had some loyalty among her foolish troops, that pitiful Lancel...

 _Another exiled dynasty_ , she snorted to herself, entering the royal quarters. She ascended the steps, holding her skirts up. But they would be different. They would leave their mark… Leave them nothing to be proud of, the stinking, backstabbing little savages...  
 ** _  
"Mama, take this badge from me... I can't use it anymore…"_**

And the worst. The worst of them all. It wasn't that fucking Young Wolf who had captured her Jaime. It wasn't that insipid squid, Ironborn scum with no loyalty to anything other than his steel and his dark arts. It was her. That voice haunted her. Every day, it seemed, since she'd come here: The wretched songbird went on and on, and the voice could not be escaped.

" ** _It's gettin' dark, too dark to see. I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door,"_** the girl sang softly, the voice so sweet and pure it made her want to spit. Made her want to rip the girl's throat from her, and keep that look of tranquility and wistfulness off the faces of her court.  
 ** _  
"Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door... Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door..."_**

How did she do it? How did she manage that smile, that serenity when her own son had had her beaten in front of the court?! When her head might become forfeit?!  
 ** _  
"Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door... Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door..."_**

The depths of spite in that little wolf bitch... The grief and horror of her father's death should have broken her. It was partially that little bitch's fault, anyway!  
 ** _  
"Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door... Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door..."_**

And yet... In her eyes, she saw steel. Elegant and shining... Yet strong.

It was the kind of thing to keep one awake at night... Even a Queen like herself.  
 ** _  
"Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door... Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door..."_**

Cersei entered the royal apartments, seizing a bottle of Dornish wine and pouring herself a glass. The song continued, making her sick. She downed the wine anyway, forcing the satisfying burn. It filled her, enhancing her bad mood rather than improving it. She stalked the corridors, following the song. She found the door and slammed it open, glaring at Sansa Stark.

She was sitting by the window again, her handmaidens nearby. The Dornish-looking one, brought along with Tyrion's entourage, was knitting as she listened. The younger one, her father's former cupbearer, was near the door cutting up bread and cheese. Sansa ceased her singing, looking at Cersei with calm, steely eyes.

"Your Grace," she spoke, rising and curtsying. So perfect, always so perfect. Her handmaidens followed suit, not that Cersei cared.

"Up singing again," Cersei sneered. "Howling on and on at the moon, as always… " She took a deep pull of her wine, eyes still locked on Sansa. The Dornish handmaiden glanced at Sansa, and the redheaded little bitch nodded. She sat down, resuming her knitting. The other handmaiden resumed her cutting, the knife tinking against the plate in the background.

"I have heard no complaints about it, Your Grace," Sansa spoke, her hands folded in front of her stomach. She was back to wearing that blue dress and white… What was it called… Corset. Baring her neck and shoulders, a choker around her graceful neck. So slim, so pretty…

"No, I suppose not," Cersei spat, before taking another sip of wine. "Tell me: Did you yowl half as loud for the Squid? Or your brother? Or your half-brother?"

The sounds of cutlery ceased behind her. The Dornish whore bent her eyes low.

Sansa's face remained unperturbed. "I don't understand what you mean, Your Grace," Sansa said gently.

"Oh please," Cersei sneered. "I saw those looks shot your way back at Winterfell. You must miss it-The caresses, the embraces… Getting _fucked_ like the bitch you are."

Sansa was silent. Cersei leaned forward, after another gulp of her glass.

"After all! What else are a pack of wolves to do with something as precious and _beautiful_ as you?" Cersei continued. "I saw the looks you got… How was each one, hm?"

Sansa sucked in a breath through her nostrils. Cersei narrowed her eyes, adopting almost a wistful tone.

"The eldest, mm? They call him the Young Wolf, don't they? He has the Tully hair… Broad shoulders… Good endurance. I remember him running with his wolf. Did he take you with that beast, hm? Is that why you were so sad when your mutt was beheaded?"

She sipped her wine again, eyes boring into Sansa's. The young woman, the damned little wolf bitch, still remained calm. Like steel. Like her insults were nothing…

"No… _No_ … All the fuss you Starks make about 'incest', that bit of hypocrisy… No. What about your father's bastard, hm? He was pretty. So very, very pretty. Maybe he was far away enough you could do him without seeing your father… Or… Was it the other way around?" Cersei hissed.

Sansa remained silent, staring at her like one of those mannequins in the Wintertown displays. Mannequins she'd seen appear in King's Landing, modeling dresses and the like. It wouldn't surprise her if the fucking Squid had based them off of her. So slim, so pretty…

"Or… Maybe the Squid himself, mm? So good with his hands… So patient with his little toys. Did he learn how to tweak your nipples just right? Tap your… Buttons? Listen to how you moaned and sighed to adjust it? Did he make you sing, Little Bird?" Cersei leaned forward, her face in Sansa's. She forced out every bit of her disdain into the wolf bitch's face. And yet all she was doing was blinking, staring back…

"Or did he prefer your sister? She must have been tighter… All that running around, in dresses, playing at being a man… Wouldn't surprise me if all your brothers preferred young boys. She could _pretend_ well enough, the little beast…"

Cersei paused in her rant to sip her wine again. The little bitch didn't so much as twitch. Cersei's fingers flexed as she looked at her neck: That damn graceful, pale neck…

"The way you dress up like a whore with airs, it doesn't surprise me one bit if they'd all had you, and her. Did you both share the same cock? The same taste in your mouths? Or just wolves, hm? Your only companions?!"

Sansa finally reacted: She looked over Cersei's shoulder, briefly, a strange look in her eyes. It lasted only a moment, and Cersei wondered at it before Sansa spoke: Calmly, directly, and patiently.

"Your Grace, is there anything in particular you wanted me to talk about?" She asked.

Cersei stared at Sansa. She tightened her grip on the glass, and felt it creak in her hands. Not even an angry blush. Not a twitch. The bitch's eyes... Those _eyes...!_

"I'm calling you a _whore to your face!"_ Cersei snarled, nearly seizing Sansa by her shoulders. As though the little bitch was slow!

Sansa very slowly nodded. "I heard what you said, your Grace," she replied. "Was there anything else?"

 _Was there anything else... Wasthereanythingelsewasthereanythingelsewasthere-?!_

"... Nothing," Cersei managed in a tight voice. She dropped the glass of wine, letting it shatter all over the stone floor. She turned to the door, the masked handmaiden back at work on the food. Cersei stormed out, slamming the door behind her. She took deep breaths, resisting the urge to scream. Resisting the urge to call for her guards… Have the bitch's throat slit… Those eyes removed, those damn eyes…!

"Fuck them all," she growled, stalking off to find someone to yell at. "Fuck them all…!"

If it took her entire kingdom, she would get revenge. She would leave them nothing… Nothing but ashes…

Then maybe those eyes would stop haunting her.

\- - - - -  
 **  
Sansa**

\- - - - -

Shae had bent down to clean up the glass. Sansa knelt with her, handing her a cloth they both used to gather the shards.

"What were you thinking?" Shae hissed up at the masked girl. "What were you _thinking?!"_

"I was thinking I could kill that bitch," Arya growled. She glared at Sansa, who finished sweeping up the glass shards into the cloth. "Didn't you hear what she said?! What she was-?!"

"I heard. Every word," Sansa said, her shoulders shaking slightly. She seldom wore the blue jacket that the outfit came with-Down here, it was just too warm. How Arya went around in so much covering, she didn't know.

"Then why didn't you-?!"

Sansa stood and took a deep breath. She walked over to her sister, and hugged her tightly. Arya stiffened a bit, but hesitantly returned it.

"She's mocked me and abused me since the day our father was betrayed," Sansa said quietly. "Joffrey too… She's said even worse things." Sansa smiled softly, and stroked her sister's cowl. "Every time looking for me to make a move out of line… Some excuse to punish me, harm me... "

Sansa sighed. "And every time… I remember that either of them could have me killed at any moment. Or tortured…" She shook a little, and Arya tightened her grip on her big sister. She could only imagine what Cersei had threatened… Even Shae hadn't heard it all.

"They want me to react. They _want_ me to cry, to scream, to rage… And I will not give them what they want," Sansa stated, her soft pretty voice made of steel. "I will not let them win… They play their games and want me to react to entertain them, break in front of them… Like I did when Father…"

Arya hugged her big sister more tightly. Sansa stroked her head, taking deep breaths.

"... I will not let them win, Ari," she whispered. "I will never let them win… Every time I say _no_. Every time I refuse to play on their terms, I'm _winning_. I can't swing a sword or shoot a gun or build a bomb but… But in this… I can fight…"

Arya was silent. Sansa tilted her head up, gazing warmly into her eyes.

"I have to take care of my little sister… After all," she murmured. Arya nodded slowly, and her hug tightened. Sansa sighed, feeling a weight leave her. It wasn't much but… It was enough.

She felt Shae's hand on her shoulder. "My Lady, we really should go," Shae said. "It's too dangerous to let her stay here…"

"Of course," Sansa said. She hugged her sister again. "Take care, hm?"

"I can handle myself, it's you I'm worried about," Arya admitted. Sansa smiled back.

"I've survived this long… What will happen this night, hm? Go on…"

Arya pouted a bit… But nodded. She turned and headed out, leaving the plate of food on the dresser. Shae lingered, and looked to her mistress.

"She will be fine… I promise," Shae said. Sansa nodded.

"Thank you," she said. Shae nodded, and headed out. She shut the door behind her, and Sansa sighed. She walked to her bed and sat down on it, holding herself.

She didn't know if it would work… All she knew was that she had a chance to keep her sister out of the Lannister's clutches and get her home. And she would take it.

"I fight for you too, sister," Sansa murmured.


	26. Omake - Winter is coming

**Mirror Notes:** As I mentioned in chapter 22, and right at the start, the Omakes are part of the story, they're simply often not written by the main author. Don't skip this one, it's important.

 **Omake:** _Winter is Coming_ \- Part I

This is the setup for a two part Omake - mostly underlining the changes to the Night's Watch that have occurred at this point. So its pretty much exposition - next chapter is the fun that links the end of TALES FROM BEYOND THE WALL to now!

Ser Alliser Thorne was smiling.

This act alone was enough to send a mild undercurrent of fear and apprehension through several dozen Brothers of the Black in close proximity to him.

The Master at Arms of Castle Black, Ser Alliser was perhaps one of the most formidable men to have ever held the post in the history of the Watch. Having fought on the losing side of Robert's Rebellion, he had been offered a 'choice' by Tywin Lannister of either death or taking the black and had unsurprisingly chosen Castle Black over execution. His skill with a sword and experience at war had gotten him assigned to the Rangers almost immediately upon his arrival and, from there, he had first been part of and soon led extended rangings beyond the wall a dozen times. He had survived in the harshest conditions known to man, arriving back at Castle Black with his patrol several times well past the point his Brothers had all but given them up for dead. After the death of the previous holder of the office, Ser Alliser had been a natural choice to replace the Master at Arms. He now rarely went beyond The Wall except for brief overnight trips with raw recruits as part of their training. Instead, he worked to impart his hard won knowledge and skills with an often brutal directness to new candidates. His direct and caustic nature won him very few friends, but soon enough all came to understand and deeply value the harshness of his training. By the time they returned (if they did) from their first ranging, most Rangers credited the lessons of the Master of Arms as greatly helping their survival.

It still didn't make him well _liked_ , but it made him _respected_. And no Brother had adapted more readily to the changes that had swept across the Night's Watch in recent years than he.

It had all started four years ago when Benjan Stark had returned from a visit to Winterfell, his first official visit as First Ranger. While no-one doubted the skill, cunning or leadership of Eddard Stark's younger brother or worthiness of his promotion to the position, there was also little doubt that his appointment by the Lord Commander had been at least in part political. The order of the Night's Watch had waxed and waned over the generations, but for some time it had been on a steady downward trajectory. Fewer men joined willingly to serve a noble cause, more were shipped from prisons in fear of losing a hand or a head. And even then not enough came to keep their numbers steady. Only three of the twenty castles on the wall were manned, leaving great gaps Wildlings snuck through despite the best efforts of the Rangers to patrol, increasingly raiding The Gift for weapons, clothes and anything of use. And in response, its population increasingly packed up and left, robbing the Watch of the critical support they had once provided.

Accordingly, Benjan had gone South to Winterfell to seek his brother's assistance. The Night's Watch needed manpower, weapons, gold, and food; frankly it needed _everything_ if it was going to survive. Eddard was well known as a man of duty and honor - and much as it might have grated on the honor of both Jeor Mormont and Benjan Stark to beg the Lord of Winterfell for help, it _had_ to be done lest the Watch fade away into nothing.  
Which would bode ill for the North and Realm beyond it.  
The Black Brothers had hope, that at the _least,_ Benjan would return with a promise of more food shipments to supplement their meager ladar. Perhaps even some new horses to supplement the few tired nags they had left. Even some prisoners or a few volunteers to shore up their numbers if they were _really_ lucky...

Instead, he had returned with a boy of ten and five.

It had seemed like a bad joke - or even an insult from Winterfell. That _this_ was all the help that the legendary Ned Stark would give the Night's Watch in its hour of need? More than a few dark comments had been made as the First Ranger had led the boy straight into conference with the Lord Commander and Maester Aemon before they had emerged several hours later. Calling the members of the Watch present to assemble, he had introduced the young man as Theon Greyjoy; son of Lord Paramount Balon Greyjoy and a ward of Ned Stark. Who was here to assist the Night's Watch with their 'situation'.

No-one dared incur the wrath of Lord Mormont by sneering or laughing out loud at the absurdity of what could only be an insult from Lord Stark, but the dark glares and bad humor in the hundreds of Brothers crowded in Castle Black's training ground was almost a physical thing as the not-quite-man had stepped forward. Surprisingly unintimidated by their looks, he had thanked the Lord Commander and explained that arrangements were being made in Winterfell to provide a _great_ deal more support to the Night's Watch, but that Lord Stark had allowed him to come ahead and begin _his_ work. Boasting that when he was finished, each Brother would _ten times_ more formidable a warrior than they were now..  
And with his bizarre claim ringing around the courtyard, he had casually pulled an oddly shaped _thing_ from his belt, aimed it at a block of ice roughly fifty feet away … and exploded said ice with a shocking _crack_ of thunder. Causing near every Black Brother to jump backwards in fright and/or awe.

 _That_ had been the start of the legend of Theon Greyjoy in the annals of the Night's Watch.

Because with the shipments of thunderarms that had arrived soon after had come other technology perhaps even _more_ valuable - and not just more food. The 'Northern Glasses' issued to every Ranger patrol; worth their weight in silver when scouting beyond the wall _._ The near magical 'compass' that allowed anyone to get their bearings even in the worst weather, day or night; worth their weight in _gold_ ( _literally_ so as one man had been executed after trying to sell one off to a Bravosi merchant at Eastwatch) _._ Tinned food that remained unspoiled and didn't taste like the dirt mixed with shit of their current pack rations. Medical kits containing far more effective treatments for Rangers far from help. All utterly _priceless_ gifts … all given freely to the men of the Watch.

And that was only the beginning.

Convinced by both his Brother and young Greyjoy, Eddard Stark had decreed publicly that it was high time that the North remembered the debt they owed the Watchers on the Wall. Accordingly, he had imposed on all the new Guilds and Companies who used the services of the Silver Bank of the North (which was more or less _all_ of them) a tithe of no more than one percent of their yearly profits. To be paid in gold or in kind to the Night's Watch, until further notice.  
Some Guilds or Lord's grumbled, but relatively few and relatively quietly. After all, even with the tithe their loans were still _significantly_ cheaper than anything the Iron Bank or Lannisters would offer. And with the 'economic boom' across the North seeming to redouble every year, most of the complaints had died stillborn as their profits had only kept creeping ever upwards. And so almost before the bewildered Lord Commander had realized it, a year passed and a representative of the Silver Bank had arrived at Castle Black, his wagon carrying the full accounts of the Night's Watch along with 'catalogues' from all the Guilds and Companies who they now had 'credit' with.

Within weeks of _that_ first visit, the brothers eternal shortages of … well, _everything_ , had started to vanish. Soon arriving up the King's Road had been shipments of seemingly more clothes, food and more supplies, equipment and tools then they could fit into their Castles! Fresh young pack animals and well trained riding animals too - even their barely sea worthy _ships_ had been retrofitted in White Harbor courtesy of the Guilds there; reinforced with iron and ironwood to deal with the harsh seas of the far North, even equipped with a few Brandon Burners!

And yet far _more_ generosity was to come from the Lord of Winterfell in the form of 'tax concessions' - another Greyjoy innovation - to the Mechanic and Construction Guilds, in exchange for them donating manpower, material and time to deal with the daunting backlog of structural work needed at their three active castles of the Night's Watch.  
And it was at this point that the Night's Watch _truly_ started to understand how much was changing in the North. They -and a few others far to the South too- raised eyebrows as for the first time, the North flexed its new 'industrial muscles'. A veritable army of Mechmen and Gearwives had all but invaded the three castles for three years with new tools and technology that may have even impressed Bran the Builder himself. Ancient buildings on the verge of collapse like Hardin's Tower were simply pulled down with little fanfare, their raw material fed into the hungry maw of new construction. Using something called concrete (or 'fluid rock' as some North Men insisted on calling it) and masses of stone, they in astonishingly short times had fixed, upgraded and rebuilt things all over the three castles. The Builders of the Watch delighted in the changes, working hand in hand with the men and women of the North to learn new technology and tools, diving into this fast moving new world with no less gusto than the rangers practicing with their thunderarms on the firing line.

And then there was the Gatehouse.

It had been a dream of Lord Commanders for centuries; finally taking form over the last few years. It did not look terribly elegant; really it was just a plain square wall around the North Gate of the tunnel through The Wall. It enclosed a small courtyard with a few buildings for horses and men to shelter in, store weapons and equipment and so on, with an iron-banded ironwood gate. It certainly looked insignificant next to _the_ Wall which it sprung from which made it all too easy to dismiss it at range, but at over thirty feet high and near fifteen thick, the battlements bristled with cannon and firing lines for men with muskets and burners and mortars that would do horrible, _horrible_ things to any massed Wildling attack against Castle Black from the North. Which seemed ever likely as the whispers of the new 'King Beyond the Wall' started to pass into the Rangers ears as they scouted the far North.

Not that there were exactly many living Wildlings stupid enough to be within a day's ride of the Wall anymore, with heavily armed ranger teams almost hunting them for sport now. It was change after change after change to the Brothers of the Watch - and more than a few in truth had been left bewildered and reeling.

The Master at Arms had not been one of them.

Pistols and burners, thunderers and cannon; with any and all weapons Ser Alliser was inevitably the first to learn and then master them, before in turn teaching others. As always, his expectations were set incredibly high and Theon Greyjoy was quite generous in providing plentiful ammunition for training purposes. There was little doubt that the finest marksmen in the world could be found at The Wall and _woe_ to any recruit who after firing off their 500 training rounds could not meet Alliser Thorn's high expectations.

Fortunately few wasted his time by failing - and his time was very limited these days. He had a _lot_ more men to train, with the orders strength now topping three thousand men.  
On paper anyway.  
The not quite children in training, recruited from the poor across the slums of the South on Theon Greyjoys suggestions, desperate for any chance at a _real_ life were hardly the equal of the recruits who came in the ages past. Untrained and often not terribly fit. Still, most of them had quickly shaped up; three decent meals a day and the enforced equality of the brotherhood had won them over quickly enough. In just a few more years the oldest among them would be strong enough to join the order formally and take their vows. Until then, they trained in weapons, were taught by the Stewards and worked with the Builders. The oldest among them could shoot straight and the youngest at least knew how to reload thunderarms for brothers who _could_ shoot straight. All in all, Castle Black was far better defended than it had been for a very long time …

But it wasn't nearly good enough as far as Ser Alliser was concerned.

Still, despite rumors to the contrary, even _he_ enjoyed a brief break from screaming at the not-quite-men on the firing range or inside the sword training yard. Which was why he was sitting alone at the high table inside the Great Keep during the second lunch rotation, reading the Westeros Despoiler.

And smiling.

More than a few of the hundreds of young recruits not yet sworn to the watch shuddered visibly at his smile and tried to finish their meals and get outside quickly - just in case he was about to do what he normally did when smiling and order everyone in earshot to gear up for a one league snow run after someone _, somehow_ disappointed him. But for once the smile was not directed at them, but at the pictures in the papers before him.

And not because it was the latest issue of Dorns _extremely_ popular 'The Sunspear' with its Page-3 girls as one might have thought at first glance.

While Ser Alliser had been a Brother of the Night's Watch for almost twenty years, it didn't mean that he had forgotten his life before joining. He had been a Knight, fighting for his King in the Rebellion. He had been there when the King had opened his cities gates for this old friend Tywin Lannister. A man who had apparently not even the courage to declare for the Rebellion when it was a foregone conclusion they had won. Instead, tricking his King to open the gates so he could start the sack of the city.  
He had done his duty, had fought hard with a few men to try and protect his city despite the hopelessness of the battle, surrendering with the few survivors when news came that Jamie Lannister had murdered his King and their cause was hopeless.

It had been a humiliation being dragged before Tywin in the aftermath and offered the 'choice' of either execution or taking The Black. And although he _was_ proud of the life he had made here and all he had accomplished ... some wounds never truly healed.

Accordingly, although he knew some of his Brothers would probably frown on it, he had taken a secret pleasure in following the progress of the war in the papers delivered. The picture of the sullen Kingslayer in chains after the first battles had delighted him, the news of the 'undefeated' Lord Tywin fleeing before the rapid Northern advance, his army broken and shattered had left him in a surprisingly good mood for over a week (although most Brothers incorrectly attributed this to the fact that Jon Snow had left the Castle with the Lord Commander on his Great Ranging). Then had come the fall of the Golden Tooth and a vicious satisfaction at seeing Robb Stark standing on top of the corpse of 'Ser' Greggor Clegane, whose crimes had finally been loudly announced to the world and justice delivered.

Still, his 'good mood' was only skin deep. As cathartic as it was reading about the Lannisters finally getting justice for their crimes, his life and concern _was_ The Watch. And although he knew better than to show it in any way, he was growing increasingly worried with the lack of news from the Lord Commander and his Great Ranging. A steady stream of Ravens had initially arrived at Castle Black, detailing their movements and activities over the first weeks and months as they moved North, with the last Ravens to arrive confirming they had rendezvoused with the Halfhand and Rangers from the Shadow Tower at the Fist of the First Men. And that there was a large Wildling presence nearby they were going to investigate.

And then … nothing.

He _refused_ to believe that the Wildlings had wiped out the ranging. Hundreds of the best rangers equipped with the best weapons, including their first Gatling Gun, three quarters of their new Ironrath repeaters and enough explosives to probably _blow a hole in The Wall_ if they wanted to? With enough food for months?  
No. That level of force in a defensive position like the Fist of the First Men couldn't possibly have been overrun by Wildlings with a few scavenged steel weapons, clubs and bows. Or at the very least, not overrun before they got the word out. There was of course the most likely possibility; simply that bad weather had grounded their ravens. The annals of the Night's Watch were filled with _countless_ reports of Brothers North of the wall being caught in bad weather that had prevented any Ravens flying for months at a time - even when they had them to hand. And in normal times, he would have dismissed a lack of communication as exactly that.

But … these were not normal times.  
Because there might just be far more terrible things out beyond The Wall than mere wildings.

A year ago, he had woken in the early morning to shouts of alarm, the roar of gunfire and the ringing of alarm bells. He had made it to the courtyard clutching his sword and pistol just in time to see a burning figure staggering towards the Lord Commander and Jon Snow, arm outstretched … before it collapsed to the ground without a sound. Right on top of the remains of a second corpse, its head shattered apparently by the sawn off viper Snow had apparently unleashed at point blank range, which then caught the fire from the first and started to burn too.

That he had slept through the whole thing and _Lord Snow_ had saved the life of the Lord Commander had been somewhat humiliating, but the humiliation had faded behind a sense of stunned shock once the men had relayed what had happened to the senior Brothers.  
The two corpses they had found frozen just North of the wall had come to life in the middle of the night, somehow made their way undetected to the Lord Commander's tower and tried to kill him. If not for that bloody Direwolf of 'Lord Snow's' that had apparently sensed the threat and directed its master to them...  
Frantic work in the Library of Castle Black through the next day had confirmed that only the touch of their most ancient enemy could have done what they saw. At least so some claimed. More than a few Brothers were skeptical at the idea dismissing it as impossible and insisting there had to be another answer - until Snow again had spoken up, quoting words Theon Greyjoy had used when he had used 'that i word' one too many times around him at Winterfell.

' _When you eliminate the_ impossible _Jon, whatever remains -no matter how_ improbable _,_ must _be the truth'._

Quoting Greyjoy had shut up people effectively, he'd give the bastard that, at which point others who had stayed their tongue had hesitantly started to point out all the other strange things happening beyond The wall that slowly started to paint a chilling picture. All of them of course knew of Lord Stark's execution of Will for desertion - and what the generally stable man had insisted right up to the point of his execution. All of them had also been briefed on the odd behavior of the wildings. Massive fires at night in the frost fangs, visible from the top of the wall at the Shadow Tower with a heavy 'telescope'. Reports from Rangers that entire Wildling villages were abandoned, large groups seemingly converging in larger and larger numbers despite generations of antipathy. The bizarre activity of the animals in the Haunted Forest that the best trackers could only shrug at too took on a sinister note when reflecting on Ghosts activity of the night before - and of course, the fact that _something_ had caused the _notoriously_ independent free folk to join together under a former Ranger of the Night's Watch...

Winter was coming. The Starks words _always_ proved right in the end. And history had always shown that a long summer meant a harsh winter … and this had been the _longest_ summer noted since reliable records had been kept.

Too many things were pointing to a conclusion _no-one_ wanted to reach. No one even wanted to directly say it out loud - as if doing so would make it true.

But the Lord Commander did so with his usual fearlessness and bluntness. The Wall had _not_ been built to keep Wildlings out of the North; it had been built to deal with keeping out a _far_ more terrible threat - and their order had ultimately been founded to _fight_ that threat before all others.

And if _they_ were returning...

Debate had raged into the morning in the closed council over their next action. In the end, the decision was made to not contact either Winterfell _or_ King's Landing - at least not _yet_. Partially because they had little data and even less evidence to present. Certainly not enough to convince a skeptical young Southern King that an ancient legend more spoken in children's tales than reality might be returning. And no-one knew exactly where they stood with this new Robb Stark - except that he clearly had his focus on the South and would be unlikely to pay any attention to odd claims from The Wall with his rage running high after the death of his Father.

And that probably held true more or less for the Boomsquid too.

No. The Starks had spent a great deal of time and effort re-forging the Night's Watch once again into a powerful force that could look after itself. They would do the job they had been entrusted with. The Lord Commander would personally lead a Great Ranging beyond the wall, to get answers to their far too many questions. Once they had such information and returned, _then_ they could either sound the alarm to the Realms of Men that the second War for the Dawn was upon them all … or … be glad they had not made fools of themselves by 'crying wolf' as that new Winterfell tale said.

And for a time, Alliser had received each raven and recorded each message crisply. Plotting the progress of the Ranging on the master map in the Lord Commanders office as the ranging had moved through many long abandoned villages to Craster's Keep. The unpleasant stain of a Wildling providing _some_ useful information to them, but otherwise proving as unpleasant as ever. Then their progression to the Fist of the First Men where they had soon enough made contact with the Brothers from the Shadow Tower, led by the Half Hand. Another Raven soon after noting that they had confirmed Mance was present and had been promising all the Wildlings that he would lead them behind The Wall. And the response from the Lord Commander had been to send in a small party to kill Mance and hopefully disperse the threat.

And then … nothing. Weeks and weeks of _nothing._

Suddenly losing his appetite, he shoved himself away from the thick wooden table and stomped out of the keep into the frigid cool outside, starting to make his way to the firing range where some of his subordinate Brothers who helped him train the recruits would be trying to teach them how to man and use a Storm Hammer artillery piece. And yelling at the recruits for a while might just distract him from the increasingly certain feeling that something had gone disastrously wrong and soon enough he would have to decide what to do and be it on his head the consequences.

Then a horn sounded.

Ser Alliser froze in place, his head whipping around so fast he felt a twinge in his neck. Settling his gaze on the top of the wall he waited … and then a second blast came concurrent with a series of bright flags being raised along the top of the wall next to the elevator.  
To his private relief, there was no Third blast in the prescribed timeframe.  
Studying the flags as they unfurled, he none the less felt his lips press together thinly as he read the signal from the lookouts atop the wall. A signal system introduced based on that of the Navy of the North - combinations of flags allowing surprisingly detailed messages to be sent from the top of the wall to either those in Castle Black or the Gatehouse, without having to waste time sending messengers up or down. And the four flags being raised now, in order meant...

 _Wildlings. Very large numbers. Approaching from due North. At great distance._

Turning, he noticed that most activity in the bustling courtyard had come to a halt as everyone stared at him. Turning his eyes found the Castle blacksmith, Donal Noye standing ready and nodded.  
Grunting, the one-armed man seized a crank next to a large drum and started turning. A low mournful wailing screaming that would have cut through even the most pressing dream after reading one of the Dornish 'newspapers' that were so _very_ popular. Brothers scattered in all directions as the 'siren' grew in pitch and volume and pushing past them, he made his way to the elevator cage waiting for him, passing the line of others assembling for their turn and accepting his sword, pistols and 'combat webbing' from his personal steward on the way With the elevator filled to capacity the door was closed and a lever pulled…

And with a jolt, the elevator started to rocket skyward.

Another Greyjoy improvement, the ancient elevator had been one of the prouder innovations of the Watch - and while he _had_ been impressed on his first visit to the wall by the contraption, the Boomsquid had also been appalled by the need for Brothers of the Watch to manually winch it up and down - with the help of a counterweight. Someone had then made the mistake of asking him sarcastically if he had any better ideas when he had observed this fact … and Theon had simply smiled.

A few years later, a crude windmill had been raised over the Castle, one that captured the never ending winds the Wall generated and stored this 'power' into a set of heavy steel disks he called a 'flywheel'. Now when a lever was pulled, all that stored power was used to fling the elevator skyward at speed. So quickly in fact that many Brothers complained about their ears popping and Alliser indeed saw a few now holding their nose and their faces going red as they tried to equalize the pressure change.  
Trying not to smirk at their discomfort, Alliser stepped off the elevator when it reached the top, the cage quickly dropping back rapidly to pick up the next load. Stalking to the main observation platform past the Brothers on duty readying the sinister line of Brandon Burners on their 'shock absorbing' platforms, he pushed inside and raised a voice honed to perfection in the training yard for many many years.

"REPORT" he roared, loving that word the Northerners had introduced into their vocabulary; a question _and_ a command _and_ ademand all in one. _Wonderfully_ efficient it was…

"Ser Alliser!" a young brother -Riley he thought?- stood up straight, clearly slightly nervous but holding his composure well.  
 _Good lad, would make a good Ranger in a year or two_.  
"Movement in the Haunted Forest, at least fifteen miles out" he pointed, stepping away from the Castles heavy 'telescope' placed on a tripod at the observation post. Stepping up, Alliser put his eye to the device….

"Around ten thousand" he finally stated flatly after a minute of careful examination, making a rough estimation, hard as it was to get good numbers while they were in the forest, there were a few tricks to estimating the size of such a force that could get an idea. "Still nowhere near enough to threaten us ... and Mance is not an idiot to throw lives away for nothing".

Riley just nodded and kept his mouth shut, having learned the hard way that when the Master at Arms wanted your opinion, he would give it to you.

"MESSENGER!" he yelled after making a quick decision.

"He...here sir!" a tiny voice squeaked and Alliser turned to find one of the younger recruits standing ready with a pencil and paper at the back of the cramped post. One good thing about the extended training time was that several of the more educated brothers were taking the time to teach the new Brothers their letters and numbers, something often overlooked in ages past with the desperate need for bodies to man the wall or range beyond it.

Rapidly Alliser gave a series of orders to send contact reports to the other two castles, as well as ordering patrols from them to sweep the wall towards Castle Black, just in case Mance was trying to be clever. Then additional orders to the Rangers below to assemble two teams to do the same from Castle Black, being sure to take Ravens with them. It wouldn't be the first time Wildlings had tried using a diversion to attract all attention and pull all patrols in to reinforce, while slipping raiders over the wall further away.

But never with _this_ many wildlings...

"Ser - look!" Riley suddenly yelled and Alliser glanced up - to see a group of black figures emerging from the near treeline of the Forest, a mile away from the wall. Snatching up his glasses, he focused in on the figures …

"So, Lord Snow returns to us" he muttered, recognizing the arrogant prick of a bastard at once, his Dire Wolf beside him with perhaps three or four dozen other Brothers. They were on foot, carrying only their weapons … and they looked like shit. And as much as he loathed the bastard of Ned Stark for his 'better than everyone' attitude … he was actually almost glad to see him and those with him.

"Looks like the Wildlings chased them all the way here from the Fist" Riley offered and Alliser just shot him a look that caused the other to shut his mouth and find something interesting to look at.

"Sound Ranger Returning" he growled at the Brother manning the giant horn nearby. "I'm going to the Gatehouse to get some damn answers".

As the single loud blast rippled across the region, Alliser stomped to the elevator, which plummeted to the ground, before he made his way through the Wall to the Gatehouse. With a gesture and a loud creak, the massive ironwood banded Iron Gate was swung open by teams of men, as the men on the battlements tensed up, just in case this was some kind of trick…

But no trickery came as the Brothers almost staggered into the Gatehouse looking ragged and utterly exhausted

 _Far_ more worryingly though, 'Lord Snow' actually looked almost _happy_ to see him.

He had a feeling this was not going to be good news.


	27. LXII, and Omakes

**LXII: Kingsmoot**

 _AC 300, Iron Islands, Harlaw, Ten Towers  
_  
 **Asha Greyjoy  
** \- - - - - -

Ten Towers had felt more like home to Asha than Pyke ever had. She remembered running along the battlements and bridges, looking out over the sea every morning. She remembered going to the Book Tower to read with her dear uncle Roderik, learning of fantastic lands and incredible things. Things she'd sought out, along with wealth, adventure, and plunder.

Yet it was comforting, somehow, to smell the old books and see the lanterns burning over the bookshelves. To feel the musty weight of years, surrounding her, when she felt completely adrift.

Here, at an old wooden table, she found her beloved uncle. Rodrik Harlaw, Lord of the Ten Towers. He was an average looking man of some years, his hair still light brown but his bread turned gray. He looked up from his books, his warm eyes gazing at her through a pair of glasses bound by wire. He smiled kindly, and gestured to a chair nearby. She slowly sat down, and waited for her uncle to speak.

"Ill winds blow through my windows," he grunted. "The sea is disturbed..."

"All the thunder from Theon's toys," she grumbled. Rodrik raised an eyebrow, studying his niece.

"Really now? And how is my nephew, hm?"

"Takes after you," Asha admitted. She could imagine the same kind look in Theon's eyes right now. Yet where Rodrik's eyes brought her comfort, her brother's brought her fear and indecision. "A bit... Disconnected, in some ways. A bit mad... Yet..."

"Not the reunion you expected, hm?" Rodrik asked. Asha slowly nodded. "Well! Most things in life turn out to be unexpected."

"The Kingsmoot was expected," Asha muttered. "Those idiots sided with Uncle the moment he brought up dragons and mummery..."

"Slaughtering poor Baelor helped him too," Rodrik observed calmly, turning the page. Asha scowled at her uncle, confused and angry.

"Then why are you so... So...?"

"Calm?" Rodrik smiled, and sipped a drink on the table.

"Yes," Asha said flatly. "Your bid failed, Uncle."

"Are you giving up the Seastone chair, then?" Rodrik asked. "I would be happy to have you as my heir. The Ten Towers would be yours."

Asha was silent for a time. "... I don't know," she admitted.

Rodrik closed his book and studied his niece. Her shoulders slumped a bit.

"The world... The world isn't what it was," she admitted. "What I hoped... What I thought... The Iron Way got a quarter of our fleet sunk... I've lost my father, my uncle, and my brother..."

"The Asha Greyjoy I knew would never give up on the Seastone Chair," Rodrik said, gently chiding. "What makes this different?"

"Because when I wanted it, I wanted to... To continue the ways of the Ironborn," Asha admitted. "Oh, I wouldn't do everything father would have done, but..." She bent her head. "But after what I saw... The men I lost... Would the Seastone Chair accept me? With these doubts hanging over my head?"

Rodrik chuckled softly, and reached over to squeeze Asha's hand. She returned it hesitantly. "Asha, you know better than that... A captain has to act like they know everything. They have to pretend to have a plan, be undaunted. You know this well. The Lord-Commander of the Iron Fleet is no different. You knew your father

"I do, Uncle," Asha said. "I do... I just feel like I need a sterner reminder."

"Euron is mad," Rodrik said. "He feels a few dragons, cheap copies of thunderers and some magic will turn the tide. Let us ride like the Ironborn of old over the waves, free and powerful... Unchallenged..."

"... Was it ever like that, though?" Asha asked. Rodrik smiled at his niece.

"You know better than that," Rodrik said. "And many others know it better, too. The sting of loss is not something easy to deal with... Euron got his way with Blacktyde, but you'll notice something, outside."

Asha stood and made a show of looking out the window. And she saw exactly what she had seen on the way in: The majority of House Harlaw's fleet anchored, with most of her uncle's supporters similarly docked or at rest.

Yet it took her uncle pointing it out for the reality to really sink in through her doubts.

"Euron will have you killed," Asha said tonelessly.

"With what?" Asked Rodrik. Asha stared at her uncle, and he smiled back. A similar smile appeared on her face.

"You did not get the news, I'm afraid, but I did," Rodrik said. "Half the houses of Great Wyk indeed went to the Kingsmoot, and voted... And now have returned their fleets to the island. Same with those of Old Wyk. Euron can make all the promises he likes, but captains have ways of dragging the anchor. Of keeping from taking any action."

"Could be that they're waiting on Euron's promises to bare fruit," Asha returned. Rodrik nodded.

"Aye, likely... But considering Euron's orders to go after the Shield Islands have not been obeyed just yet, it seems the majority of the fleet is content to stay away from thunder. After all," and here her beloved uncle pulled out a copy of the _Westeros Despoiler_ and handed it to Asha, "the Reach is allied with the North now."

Asha read the paper, studying the images of King Robb and his flower queen on the front. She hummed thoughtfully, studying her little brother as he stood with his King.

"What were the terms of that truce offered by King Robb?" Rodrik asked. Asha frowned.

"I don't think the Iron pride is ruined enough for that to be accepted," Asha admitted.

"Not if offered by a King in the North, no," Rodrik admitted. "Even with fear of the guns, you're just looking at more upheaval again in the future." He looked up at Asha carefully. "On the other hand... If it were to come from an Ironborn... Even one raised among wolves..."

Asha smiled back at her uncle. "You will take care of yourself?" She asked. Rodrik nodded.

"I always do."

"Then take care of my mother..." _What's left of her,_ Asha thought. She rose and smiled, "I'll be back... With Theon alongside."

\- - - - - -

 **Omake: The Lonely Road Home**

 _AC 300, Near Golden Tooth, The Westerlands  
_  
 **Kevan Lannister**

It almost felt like an army on parade. Redcloaks on foot and horse, marching slowly along the muddy road. A few banners were even flying-Guides for the men to follow, as well as the band beating a tune to keep in step. Of course, it was all the little details that painted a different picture.

Like the fact there were armed Northmen keeping pace with the column, trailing them at a respectful distance, weapons sheathed... But ever present.

Or the fact that the clothing under the red cloaks was machine-made: Northern surplus. Much of it baring insignia of the North that the cloaks could not conceal.

The band too: It was playing a Northern song, with harsh drum beats and a staggered guitar along.

All this Kevan Lannister noted in his mind, and all this he tried not to pay too much attention to as they approached the gates. Northern banners blew in the mountain breezes above the battlements. Repairs were still going on, but some of that "flowing rock" cement was evident across the gatehouse, as were cranes and other complex devices made of wood, steel, ropes and wheels.

The gates were opened, and Kevan nudged his horse forward. His few knights followed, none armed with more than a sword or spear. Yet he appreciated their loyalty to him in this. It made him feel less defeated.

The fact the Northerners were waiting in armor and respect made him feel just a little better, too. He recognized the lead house banner: House Wells, if he remembered correctly. A tall woman with a sword at her hip and a long rifle in her arm saluted, as did the rest of the warriors with her.

"Lord Kevan Lannister! Welcome to Golden Tooth," she spoke. "I am Captain Mianna Wells."

"My lady," Kevan responded with a respectful nod, before dismounting to repeat the gesture. The woman had slightly dark skin, darker than most Northerners. Indeed, she almost looked... Myrish? She had the heavily built body of the Northerners though, behind her armor.

"Your men will be provided food and drink," she spoke. "If you lack for tents, we have some spares. There is space in the keep for you and anyone else of your choice."

"Thank you, my Lady," Kevan said again. Kevan relayed these instructions to his banners, and he went up into the Keep as he watched the Northern soldiers distribute the provisions to his men. More than a few who looked far too comfortable in this situation. Far too many.

He tried to put it out of his head, and met with Lady Alysanne Lefford. The lady looked far better than last he'd seen her-Ordering around Northern and Westerland servants with equal aplomb, and smiling far more than she had before.

He didn't inquire. He didn't think he wanted to know.

He dutifully took his ravens, read their messages… And went down to the wagon his sons were in.

Willem had received a fine coffin, he supposed. Well made. Martyn was sitting with the box, just as he had been doing since the journey began. He looked up at Kevan as he entered the wagon, and frowned.

"Father…?"

Kevan sat and wrapped his arm around the waist of his son. He sighed as Martyn leaned against him, and tentatively hugged him back.

"Your uncle… My brother… He's dead," Kevan said softly. Martyn shook a bit, and nodded.

"The North-?"

"An accident, according to all sources," Kevan said quietly. "Fell from the Tower of the Hand… Lancel says they'll transport his body back, soon as they get some knights together." He sighed. He looked at the box that held his other son. His wonderful Willem…

Martyn's arms tightened their grip. "I'm sorry, Father," Martyn said. Kevan nodded, holding in his tears as best he could.

"So am I… So am I…"

It was some time before he was able to pull himself from the wagon, his son with him. They went up and took dinner in a private room provided by Lady Alysanne, who seemed at peace given how she ordered Northern and Westerland servants around. After dinner, Kevan sat in a chair, staring out the window, as Martyn did some writing for him.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Kevan said. Captain Wells entered, carrying some letters.

"For you, my Lord," she said respectfully. She set them on the table. "Do you require anything else?"

"... No, no we do not," Kevan said. Captain Wells nodded, hesitated…

"I am sorry, milord," she said quietly. "For your loss… I lost my brother at sea just last year."

Kevan started, and looked up at her with sudden rage. "Did you read my-?!"

"No my lord, but the news is all over the Despoiler now," she said respectfully. Kevan gritted his teeth, sucking in deep breaths. Martyn was silent, busying himself with paperwork.

"Then you should go… I expect there will be celebrations from your men soon," Kevan growled. "Wouldn't want you to miss them…"

Wells sighed. "... Of course, milord," she said. She turned and left, shutting the door behind her. Kevan might have appreciated the honor showed by the Northmen… Might have remembered they were keeping to the treaty, not yet formalized. Remembered the care they showed him.

For now though, he forgot all this, and remained a grieving father and brother with his silent, comforting son.

 **Omake – Derick of the North**

The Yunkaii sun burned hot above their heads.

Considering Derick´s current circumstances, this might be an odd thing to complain about. He was thousands of miles away from home, had practically no chance of ever returning, and yet it was the sun that drew his ire.

Maybe it was because he knew that the sun wouldn't whip him for his insolence, wouldn't force him to stand in his own shit until someone bought him, that the sun held no power over him, that she didn't hold power over anyone else as either.

The cages containing the slaves – the 'merchandise', Derick thought bitterly – were placed right in the middle of Yunkai´s biggest market place. While the rest of the bazaar as covered in the shadows of the surrounding buildings and the baldachins that had been hung between the stalls, the cages were not, forcing the slaves to stand all day in the searing sun.

One of Yunkai slave masters' petty cruelties.

There wasn't enough water to get everyone over the day. And from the taunting smiles that the guards sent them every now and then, they knew it as well. They were monsters, chosen for their task because of their cruelty and delight in the misery of others. Their eyes shone with barely contained malice, faces turning into grimaces of sadistic glee when they laughed at the people perched in the metal contraception they were paid to guard.

One slave had already broken down. An old man ( _please, water_ , he had begged and the guards had laughed and laughed and laughed, a cacophony of mockery) whose lips had been so brittle that Derick thought he could count every single split on them; whose eyes had looked at them – slave and guard, the man didn't distinguish anymore – pleading, begging just for a little sip of water t he would never receive.

The guards had come in shortly afterwards, kicking the man and shouting at him to stand up, but all they could elicit were wheezing breaths and anguished moans. They had dragged him out like a broken doll and the man hadn't been seen since.

"Feeding the pigs now," a guard had told them, leering as if he wanted to spot the next person who would just give up.

Darick never thought that his hate for the Lannisters could be eclipsed by anything of this world, but in that moment the sheer force of rancor he felt for those men was so overwhelming that he had to close his eyes and hold himself back from just lunging himself at one of them and hitting them with his bare fists until their faces were nothing but broken bones, burst skin, and blood.

They were out of his reach, behind the iron bars of his cage with swords and spears of crude metal that would end him even before he had landed his first hit.

He imagined it though; the feeling of soft flesh underneath his hands, the sound of bones breaking and teeth shattering and blood seeping into the yellow-brown sand. Their anguished screams – higher and higher until they couldn't scream any longer – and the moment when the light left their eyes, turning their bodies into nothing more than empty bags of meat.

Derick´s hate was strong. It was ugly and it took hold of his whole self, creeping into the furthest corners of his mind, tainting everything it touched. It made the edges of his vision blur black and when he looked down at his hands, he saw that they were shaking, so great was the force of the emotion.

Hate was what had kept Derick going throughout his whole life, after all.

It was hate for his unknown father, who had left his mother and him before he was even born, that made Derick want to prove that lousy excuse for a human being wrong by becoming more than a bastard could ever hope to achieve.

It was hate for all those stupid, simple, shallow villagers who had shaken their heads at him, sneered and insulted him, had ushered their children into their homes when he had only longed for company, that made him learn how to read and write. _Look at me!_ he had wanted to shout at them; at their shallow minds and their hollow lives with their children who would never know better. _Look at me! I'm already more than you could ever hope to be!_

It was hate and bitterness that had made him join up with one of the newspapers when they began to emerge in the New North. Because with his writing he could hold a mirror up to the world and force it to acknowledge all the cruelties, injustices, and vulgarities that it so liked to sweep under the rug. He could make all those proud men and women look at their happy, wholesome world through the eyes of a bastard who had never

When the North went to war and the proud mothers and wives stood at the side of the street throwing flowers over the soldiers passing by, Derick had sneered at them inwardly and thought how naïve and foolish those people were.

 _Who is Ned Stark,_ he thought as the soldiers passed, _that the North has to bleed for him? That you are so eager to die for him? If it had been any of you, he wouldn't have even noticed. No one would fight a war over your lives, so why do you fight a war over his death?_

Yet, Derick had registered himself as war reporter. All those people staying back in their homes, dreaming of the glory and honour their loved ones would acclaim- of the riches they would bring back- someone had to show them that none of those things were found in war. War did not care for justice, honour, or glory. War was pain and blood and suffering and he would make them see.

Derick had been right: War was pain and blood and suffering, but it was also comrades that had your back even in the darkest of situations. It was friendship forged at nightly campfires and laughing despite the fatalistic knowledge that things could always get worse.

War was human.

And just when Derick thought that maybe the world wasn't such a bad place at all (how could it with Rickard´s exaggerated stories about his womanly conquests, Deran´s terrible cooking that they all ate nevertheless and Lorgan´s eerie silences broken only if he had something important to say?) the unit he had been assigned to was attacked by Lannister forces.

Derick could have fought. He might have been just a reporter, but he could have. Like Rickard who ended with an arrow through his left eye ( _Lyanna would never know what happened to her fiancé_ ); like Deran whose death took several antagonizing minutes as he tried to hold back intestines that threaten to escape his slashed stomach; or like Lorgan who died as silent as he had been in life.

But Derick wasn't ready to die in a skirmish of no importance; wasn´t ready to die for a cause he didn't believe in - to become one of the names that would be less than a footnote in history. Death was final. There would be no coming back. He would never see the North again.

And on that non-descript field with no name somewhere in the Riverlands, Derick Snow decided that he wanted to live. Even if it was as Lannister captive, he wanted to live another hour just to breathe, to cry, to rage, and to scream – just _to be_.

Maybe the Old Gods would find him lacking for his cowardice but they never had to look Death straight in the eye and see him smiling back. They never felt Death's breath ghosting over their necks or his ghostly touch on their skin.

As long as Derick continued living, there was a chance that he would find his way back home. Even if it was only a small one – a flickering flame in an endless sea of darkness – it was still better than none at all. As long as he continued living there was still hope. And didn't a smart man once say that hope was the deadliest poison of them all? He didn't care, he would let his blood turn into venom if it meant that he could live to see another day.

Derick continued living, but he did so as a slave.

And now he was in Yunkai, caged like a wild animal, waiting for some master to buy him. He watched them in their colourful attire as they sauntered all over the place, inspecting the slaves the same way they looked at the wares in other stalls. To them, a slave was no more different than the beautifully crafted vases a few booths further: An object to buy and to treat as they saw fit. Not human.

"How much for this one?" a woman asked, pointing at Derick. Once again, Derick was thankful that he had learned enough Valyrian over the course of his education that he was able to understand the bastard tongue of the old language the Yunkaii people spoke.

He gazed back at the woman. The clothes in which she was wrapped were of varying shades of red and hung loosely on her body, yet they didn't conceal to the observer that the body underneath was well-proportioned and lithe. Her hair was of the darkest black Derick had ever seen – it looked like it was absorbing the light around it – and her olive skin was smooth and without any blemish.

Behind her stood a row of house guards; their eyes constantly scanning the crowd around them, on the lookout for possible threats to their charge. Apparently, the woman was someone of importance. This impression was only confirmed when the slaver who oversaw the cages bowed down deeply before he began to speak.

"Ah, you truly have a discerning eye," he began, "this Northman from the far Westeros has bravely fought in their war against the Iron Throne. He single-handily killed thirteen men before he could be overwhelmed and brought here. He can be used as guard or for other manual labour." The woman looked at Derick skeptically and he had to agree with her: While he wasn't weak he also wasn't as fearsome as the slaver described him. And he certainly hadn't killed thirteen men.

"Does he have at least a modicum of intelligence or is he as dumb as the last slave you sold me?" the woman asked with arched eyebrows. The slaver spluttered and fidgeted his hands nervously.

"I´d never…"

"Stop your useless drivel," the woman interrupted and the slaver´s mouth shut instantly. "It seems to me that asking the slave itself would be a more fruitful endeavour than asking you." The man´s head turned bright red, but he didn't speak any further. The woman turned around and stared at Derick.

"Say, slave, is there anything surprising about you?"

"My name is Derick, not 'slave'," he answered. "And I can read, write, and speak the Common Tongue and Valyrian." One of the guards stepped forward, hand on his spear, ready to discipline the recalcitrant slave, but the woman held up her hand stopping the man in his tracks.

"Oh," the woman smiled at Derick. "I like this one."

A few minutes later Derick was led away from the cage and its monstrous guards to the home of his new master.

And still the sun was burning hot over Yunkai.

 **Original Character Database**

Name: Dan Greenstone **  
**Age: 17 **  
**Gender: Male **  
**Place of Birth: Winterfell, The North **  
**Culture: The North **  
**Occupation: Personal Assistant/Undermanager for Theon Greyjoy **  
**Appearance: Curly brown hair, black eyes, unassuming face and broad frame from miller work. Round face, thin well trimmed mustache. Wears bottle green jacket with long tails over gray wool trousers and tunic. Has a silver chain with a bronze gear and direwolf pendant around his neck. **  
**Brief History: Originally a miller's son, he was among many youth who learned how to read thanks to Ned Stark's reforms throughout the North. He managed the books for his mill, and helped with the installation of Lord Greyjoy's new mill technology. Impressed by the young boy's aptitude, Theon Grejoy hired Dan as his personal assistant and later Undermanager of the various guilds and concerns he was invested in. Despite this power and responsibility, Dan Greenstone has remained relatively untouched by temptation and corruption-Possibly due to the fact he has a very poor imagination, or he is simply a decent young man. He does have his flaws though, very similar to his lord's-He is super focused, serious, possessed of an exceptional memory and a good head for numbers. Unlike Theon, he is more socially awkward, yet when a woman offers to bed him he readily leaps in. ****

Name: Lady Amarda Honn **  
**Age: 19 **  
**Gender: Female **  
**Place of Birth: Hornwood, The North **  
**Culture: The North **  
**Occupation: Personal Assistant/Undermanager for Theon Greyjoy **  
**Appearance: Average build woman with sharp chinned face. Brown eyes. Long brown, wavy hair often held in a severe bun. Wears wire-rimmed glasses. Usually wears a blue skirt, plain white blouse, and long blue jacket with high collar. Wears a silver chain with a bronze gear and direwolf pendant. Carries a concealed revolver, as well as a notebook and pens and pencils with her at all times. **  
**Brief History: Amarda Honn was the second born daughter of a minor merchant house in the North who had liked to read. But because her eyesight was bad, she had to read everything with her nose to the pages. After a while, she wondered if it was worth it-She would never become a maester, or a lord, just something to be married off in trade. Despite her handling her father's accounts. Then she met Theon Greyjoy. Impressed by her intelligence and spirit, he hired her on the spot as another assistant due to the growing economy of the North. Her skill in negotiation and ingenuity in business has helped the North in ways yet to be calculated. Her severe and stern personality has made a legend for her as the Woman of Glass Eyes. Yet she has a soft spot: Her lord, Theon Greyjoy. ****

Name: Specialist-Sergeant Kevven Goodbrook **  
**Age: 20 **  
**Gender: Male **  
**Place of Birth: Fairmarket, The Riverlands **  
**Culture: The North **  
**Occupation: Abac/Computer, Artillery Section of the Royal Army of the North **  
**Appearance: Short, auburn haired man with green eyes. Claw scars on his neck. Barrel chested. Wears standard gray Royal Army of the North uniform, with a knapsack filled with his equipment. Packs two one shot pistols for self defense. **  
**Brief History: Kevven Goodbrook was scarred by a lord's overly aggressive dog when he was five, living on the family farm in Fairmarket. After his father ran into bad debts with the local lord of Fairmarket, Kevven Goodbrook's father packed up the family and moved up to seek work in the North. The kingdom had emerged from the last winter in fantastic shape and factories were going up. Kevven soon secured employment on the floor of a steel mill in Cerwyn, and his aptitude with numbers was noticed. He applied for, and entered, the Computer program with the Silver Bank of the North. He was trained in basic mathematics and operations thereof, and intended to work for the bank as an Abac. The War of the Five Kings, however, awakened Kevven's sense of patriotism and he applied to a call for Computers for the new artillery section. With the use of a slide rule, Kevven has been an invaluable asset to the Artillery section under Robb Stark's direct command. He also distinguished himself when a Lannister raiding party managed to break through the flank at the Golden Woods, and he let loose with both pistols to down the first knight. ****

Name: Saloman Peake **  
**Age: 24 **  
**Gender: Male **  
**Place of Birth: Silverhill, The Westerlands **  
**Culture: The Westerlands **  
**Occupation: Knight in service to House Serret **  
**Appearance: Plain looking, dark haired lord with round cheeks and a scar across his forehead. Wears a green peacock on his chest armor. **  
**Brief History: Squired to House Serret from a young age, Saloman Peake was knighted only one year prior to the War of Five Kings. He is an excellent horseman but middling when it comes to jousting. His preferred weapon is a short sword and shield. He has fair tactical acumen and has tried to adapt to the new tactics of the Northern army. His riders have achieved some success in quick strike raids on scouting parties of the North. However, when Ramsay Snow's War Wagons began their raids, his unit was caught and smashed near the God's Eye. He was one of the few survivors and was subsequently captured by another Northern raiding party. ****

Name: Xanner Waves of Sisterton **  
**Age: 19 **  
**Gender: Male **  
**Place of Birth: Sisterton, Sweetsister Island **  
**Culture: The North **  
**Occupation: Bass Player, War Wagons of the Army of the North **  
**Appearance: Heavy set young man, clean shaven man with long black hair with beads weaved into it. Wears a blood red longcoat over leather breeches. Plays the bass guitar. **  
**Brief History: Born of a bard and a barmaid at a sleazy tavern in Sisterton, Xanner Waves went to the North after the last winter to attend the newly founded Bard's College of White Harbor. The chance to make a good living in his father's profession was too much to resist. He graduated first in his class, and sought out a lord or band to ply his skills for. With the start of the War of the Five Kings, he was offered a job with Ramsay Snow, the bastard of Bolton's Dreadfort. A bit wary, Xanner nevertheless took the position. It has been a mixed experience, to say the least. On one hand, his star has risen as part of Ramsay and the Slayers and people scream his name across Westeros. On the other, that's often because they're being shot or burnt to death. Post-war, he is hoping to find less intense employment, maybe go solo... ****

Name: Gregor Snowgrain **  
**Age: 21 **  
**Gender: Male **  
**Place of Birth: White Harbor, the North **  
**Culture: The North **  
**Occupation: Granary Manager, Wintertown Agricultural Cooperative **  
**Appearance: Pot bellied, round faced man with close-cropped black hair and blue eyes. Usually in white cotton workcoat and white cap. **  
**Brief History: A bastard of White Harbor, Gregor gained the opportunity to work with the new threshing machines on his father's farms. He soon became well versed in everything to do with the agricultural improvements and theories Theon Greyjoy was introducing to the North. He became a manager over the farms, and even introduced his own mix of fertilizer to improve crop yields. His reputation for fairness and good management skills got him appointed to the Main Granary of the North in Winterfell, where he took the name "Snowgrain" upon buying his own land and home. He is married and expecting his first child next year. ****

Name: Eddard Shorthand **  
**Age: 19 **  
**Gender: Male **  
**Place of Birth: Rillton, The North **  
**Culture: The North **  
**Occupation: Press Officer, Reporter for the Westeros Despoiler **  
**Appearance: Fair haired, short young man. Hairy arms and chest, with a neat beard. Freckles over his cheeks. Wears a black coat over gray Army of the North Fatigues, with a knapsack and a tintype camera box. **  
**Brief History: A pig farmers third son whose parents allowed him to learn reading from the local public school, Eddard was going to enter a life of farming before the banners were called and he was conscripted for the 3rd Rilles Regiment. Due to his short height, he was not the ideal sort of soldier. His method of writing, however, attracted interest in the officer of his regiment, and he was appointed Press Officer of the Regiment after securing a contract with the Westeros Despoiler. He has since become one of the most well known reporters in the known world, his accounts of the War of the Five Kings indepth and showing his keen insight and experiences of the war. ****

Name: Kara Snow **  
**Age: 17 **  
**Gender: Female **  
**Place of Birth: Wintertown, The North **  
**Culture: The North **  
**Occupation: Gearwife, War Wagon Regiment, Army of the North **  
**Appearance: Strong build, short-haired blonde woman with freckles. Often in gray coveralls and treated cotton jacket, with goggles and gloves. Chain around her neck with a silver gear pendant. **  
**Brief History: Daughter of a Wintertown whore, Kara never expected to do great things. Her mother saved enough to send her to the Mechanics Guild schooling, and she achieved the honor in only two years. She was assigned to the Dreadfort's petroleum distillery and refineries, making considerable money while sending much back to her mother. She gained a reputation for skill and bravery, which made recruiting her for the War Wagons when the War of the Five Kings broke out. She and other Gearwives kept the machines of the North running, and even aided in covert raids on Lannister positions. It was during one of these raids the troops they were supporting were killed by their own explosives and she and her best friend Lucy Wren were captured. After being held in the King's Landing prison for several months, she was sold with several hundred other prisoners to Yunkai for Unsullied troops. ****

Name: Lady-Captain Mianna Wells **  
**Age: 21 **  
**Gender: Female **  
**Place of Birth: Torrhen's Square, the North **  
**Culture: The North **  
**Occupation: Captain, Royal Army of the North, 5th Deepwood Motte Regiment **  
**Appearance: Tall, dark skinned and fair. Dark hair, green eyes. Athletic and strong, usually wears a standard grey Royal Army uniform with a red sash around her waist. **  
**Brief History: Her mother, Teya Phyre, was a slave rescued from an Ironborn longboat by her father, Lord Ascar Wells of House Wells. As Lord Ascar was the third son of his family, who he married was of little concern, so he happily married Teya and settled in Torrhen's Square to raise a family. Mianna Wells was born, the eldest daughter, who was allowed to study with the local Maesters in exchange for cleaning and delivering food. Mianna was a willful child, however, and learned sword fighting and horse riding as soon as she could in secret. While it raised a few more traditional eyebrows, the spread of firearm ownership by men and women made it rather standard. Mianna signing up for the First Brigade of the North was more unusual, but a recommendation by Theon Greyjoy himself allowed her a place. She finished her training early and was assigned as a Lieutenant to the 2nd Torrhen's Square Regiment when the War of the Five Kings broke out. She comported herself heroically in the Battle of the Whispering Woods and later, the Battle of Goldentooth: Enough she was promoted to Captain and placed in command of the garrison left there after the North's victory. Already she has gained numerous offers for her hand in marriage across the realm-Offers she has, so far, simply ignored. ****

Name: Kurk Smith of Lannisport **  
**Age: 30 **  
**Gender: Male **  
**Place of Birth: Lannisport **  
**Culture: The Westerlands **  
**Occupation: Blacksmith **  
**Appearance: Wavy black haired, strong-armed man with a neatly trimmed black beard. Silver front tooth. Slight limp. **  
**Brief History: Born to a family of blacksmiths, Kurk Smith has been a loyal Westerlander and servant of the Lannisters since he first entered his lord's service. He has a wife named Brigot and six children, his eldest serving as a squire to a minor Lannister bannerman. Unlike many blacksmiths, he does know how to read-Having learned the skill from needing to manage his father's jobs. He moved to King's Landing as part of the Lannister contingent sent with Tyrion Lannister, to help shore up the capital city's defenses. He helped in the creation of both the chain that trapped Stannis's navy in the Blackwater, and the primitive cannons that decimated the last Baratheon's army. He was thus tapped to investigate Theon Greyjoy's strange technologies. He was able to create the first non-Northern firearm: A basic matchlock. He also created the Firestorm Arrow cart and learned how to integrate stabilized wildfire into the weapons of the Lannister loyalists. And while loyal to the Lannisters... He cannot help but notice his lords are not the same people he pledged his loyalty to before.


	28. LXIII, LXIV, LXV

**Omake – The Wolf Pack**

Brannan Frost leaned back in his chair. The tavern that he and his fellow captains and first mate's were in was just how he liked it. Deepwood Motte had embraced the sea mans life and made it a point to have certain taverns that were targeted not just for the crew of the ships of the Fleet of the North, but also some for the officers.

This one, was not the Bilge Rat, with cheap, watered down grog and whores by the dozen. It was not the Beached Squid with it's aggressive barmaids with dresses cut so low, just the act of walking threatened to have them spill out into the open and it's deranged cook who if rumour was to be believed, escaped the Ironborn and spent a week clutching to a floating raft of hull planks before being washed ashore. No, he was in the Northern Port. Well back from the waterfront, this tavern had developed a reputation for being a quieter establishment. It's low ceiling and heavy crossbeams, along with lanterns for light and the style of furniture was all aimed to have the feel of being on a ship, without the constant movement. The wine was good, the food was rich and the bar maids actually knew to deliver the food and leave when appropriate. All in all, he loved the place.

He had worked his way into his position. Child of a whore and one of her many clients, he grew up in the streets of Winterfell at the best possible time. He could read and write without struggle. He could do maths and knew his maps. He didn't care much for Religion, but had no protest against any that did, so long as they weren't sticking it down his throat. Unless they were Ironborn. Fuck the Ironborn. He had joined the merchant fleet as soon as they would have him. He'd started as a junior sailor and damn well earned his way as he moved up the chain of command until at the age of Twenty Eight, thanks to losses between a storm and the bloody Ironborn, he'd been the Bosun and most senior person left alive to limp their ruined hull back to the North. The owners said the ship was not worth repairing. With the new designs coming out, they could purchase a new, faster, better cargo hauler for less than the cost of the repair. Leaving him standing on the dock with his final pay, a bonus for getting the scow home, a pat on the back and no idea what to do next.

As chance would have it, word in the taverns was of a new type of ship. The Sloop. Fast, agile, decent crew, all of whom were trained to fight. Good northern Breachers. Cannons! It was his dream boat. For too long, he'd watched Ironborn flee into the weather, unable to give chase. He'd been in five separate boarding actions. He knew his way around a sword, but he was no Knight. He was as common as muck!

He'd joined the Northern Navy the next day. He'd told them he wanted on the Sloop. He told them his experience and skills. He'd all but begged! This! This was his chance to make a name for himself!

He was a Bastard he was told. Commoners, without a House, could never be an Officer he was told. That sunk him. A chance to really be someone and an accident of birth sunk him. Then he was told that there was an opening for a House Frost. He could found a House, all for one small little price. A tiny catch. 10 Years in the Navy, starting off not as the Bosun of such a fair ship, but as the Captain.

Him! A Captain! With a coat of Arms and all! You could have knocked him down with a feather! Those cursed recruiters with a sense of humour! He felt ten years older by the end of the meeting. He wasn't sure he could take that many Up's and Down's in a single hour.

He'd chosen a proper Coat of Arms the next day. Grey with Green Trim. A white icicle as the symbol, the sort of icicle you get hanging from the sheets after a night at sea in a storm. Pretty to look at but can kill a man if you arent careful. Then he was taken fore the Manderly's and given a pat on the back, a patent of his Name and House, and told to have fun. The Feasting was amazing! Theon the Genius was even sitting at the same table as him! The Boomsquid himself!

It was the happiest day of his life. Well, next to the day he was given his boat. _The Black Wind_. One of the first sloops to hit the water. It was the quickest boat he knew of at the time. It had less than half the draft of his old boat, making it comparable to the Ironborn's biggest in it's ability to move through shallow waters. Two masts, 10 Cannons, including two of those new 'Long Guns' at the bow, for when you give chase, and More sail area than he could believe. A complement of 40 meant it got a bit crowded below deck at the start of a cruise, but these were northern sailors! A little hardship didn't hurt much and The Boomsquid himself had made sure that every ship had two people in a dedicated role that was new to him. A Doctor and their assistant. There was a sailmaker to repair the sails, some of the crew were carpenters, all in all, it was a damned fine command.

His first cruise had been a shake down. A week at sea to get everyone familiar with the bitch and run some drills. The second, had been along side four other Sloops and and a Cog. A week at sea to test the tactics they had hammered out and see what worked. The third was the test. The North had put a lot of money and time into helping Theon Greyjoy design and build these. Now to see if they worked.

Which lead to the now. Him and Garent Flynn, his first Mate who grew up on Bear Island. Four other Captains, all young, eager and aggressive. New to their commands!

He was The Old Man.

By dint of Age, and command, he'd been made Commadore of their little fleet. The Wolf Pack, or so Manderly had called them. Vicious wolves to cull the weak Ironborn and Lannisters. To do things that needed to be done. To harrass and nip at their heels till they stumbled so their throats would be torn out.

Him. A Commadore. If only his Mother could see him now. Actually, no. He was glad she couldn't or she'd be flirting with anyone with coin to spare.

"Righto lads. Time to get to it."

The other's finished their chats and leaned forward to catch his attention as he looked over them. Gods, they were young for such a command.

"I've spoken with the Bosses and we've got our orders. We are heading South in two days." He grinned as he saw the eager light enter their eyes. "There is going to be a fleet of Trade ships going a long way south. All the way to Dorne" He let their surprise register before he continued. "Unfortunately for them, that means they have to go past the Iron Born and the Lannisters." He paused and let a hungry smile emerge. "Our orders are to head out a week ahead of them and range back and forth. If it flies the banner of the Lannisters or is Ironborn, it's a fair prize. We won't be capturing. We won't be raiding. We will be sinking anything that might be a threat to good honest Northern Sailors."

"There will be a half dozen of the bigger war ships with the fleet. Our job is to scout ahead and take targets of opportunity. Any questions?"

The youngest of the Captain, Benjon Ford raised his hand

"No. Wait. Ok, lets just hold a moment here. Lads, we are all Captains. We have equal trust on us by House Stark. The Boomsquid himself helped design our boats. We are equal in rank and I'm apparently only in charge because I'm the old man to you fishermen" He grinned to show it was a joke. "Now, knowing that, that I'm going to be trusting you ith my life and the lives of my crew out there. What do you want to say?"

Benjen swallowed slightly and nodded "I was just curious. How do you know these things? Like that Lord Greyjoy was one of the designers?"

"Really? Oh, thats simple. I was a Bosun on the Northern Star, a trade cog, which was hit first by Ironborn and then by a squidcursed storm. All the officers were dead or overboard and I was the highest ranked sailor left, so I captained her home to White Harbour and got paid out by the owners. Then I joined the Navy. They liked what I saw and arranged for me to get a Patent of Name, which was given to me by Lord Manderly. I then travelled up to here to take command of the first Sloop and from there, you know the rest. What you don't know is that Lord Theon himself was there at the time. He was there when I got my Name and shook my hand at the end of the night."

The looks of Awe from the other Captains were gratifying, but he thought it best to scupper them right quick.

"You know, I never forgot the first thing he said to me."

"Huh?" "What did he say?" "Really?"

"Aye. It was at the feast that night and I was lucky enough to be sat at his table. Here he is Lord Theon Greyjoy. The man who changed the North. He isnt a great big man like the Umbers. He is actually kind of boring looking. Bit of a pretty boy too. But he has this presence. I will never forget it"

He took another swig of his wine.

"It was when the roast boar had been delivered. I was just sitting there, not sure what to do. I was out of me depth, when you get one of those pauses when for a moment, everything is quiet."

The other heads nodded, appreciating not just the story, but the storytelling.

"That was when I was realised, he was looking at me. "Frost!" He said, getting my attention "You alright there?" Well. I just nodded. What could I say? Lord Theon had noticed me! Thats when he spoke up again "Good, now pass the salt over" and I did so."

There was a pause and then everyone burst into laughter as Brannan Frost poured more wine into everyones goblets.

"I'll see you lads at Sea! We know what to do and our pennants. Lets go hunt some squid!"

 **LXIII: Operation Virtuous Mission, Part 2**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, the Crownlands  
_  
 **Theon  
** \- - - - - -

A medieval society usually stinks, to a modern olfactory sense. Poor hygiene, little plumbing, it all combines into something malodorous. Something grim to noses.

Usually. Winterfell hadn't smelled like a flower when I'd first gotten there, but the Starks at least practiced good waste disposal practices for the time. Those only improved, even as the population of the surrounding lands grew in the wake of the industrial revolution. Now it smelled of steel, the woods, and smoke, depending on where you stood. It didn't really get horrifically stinky unless you were right by a smelter, or by the dump or waste processing areas. There's only so much you can do, after all.

King's Landing though? From the moment we rowed into Blackwater bay on our little fishing boat, the stench was almost nauseating. It felt like pushing through an invisible curtain of stink, making my skin crawl and eyes water. It hung in the air, like a part of the city itself there to greet us and remind us constantly of where we were. Even the night brought no relief-I almost imagined the miasma was making the stars fade above us.

Combine that with the stink of the nearby fish market outside the Mud Gate, and it was amazing anyone could live here at all.

"You'll get used to it," Bronn spoke, the sellsword observing me shrewdly as we pushed our carts of fish through the gate. The goldcloaked guards gave us a cursory inspection, waving their torches over our carts. Bronn handed over a few dragons to the apparent leader. He smiled behind his helmet guard, and waved us through. Ramsay, Oberyn and I pushed the cart as Bronn guided it from the front. And Meera? Who knew where she was?

We entered the city streets proper, barely illuminated by torch and candlelight from the streets and windows of the houses interspersed with warehouses and markets. People wandered in the street: Some lost looking souls begging for bread, prostitutes calling out to men, a few old men, guards striding about their watch...

We pushed the cart past them all, turning a corner to follow a street that was a block removed from the city walls. We didn't talk; No sense drawing attention to ourselves. It seemed like all of King's Landing was similarly quiet. Attempting to remain hidden.

A tavern sign, illuminated by lanterns, hung ahead of us. The name, written in crooked letters, read " _Debtor's Relief."_ I quirked an eyebrow as Bronn knocked on the front door. It swung open, a stout man with a prominent neckbeard answering.

"Half a man is still good," he spoke.

"If the Half-Man's made of gold," Bronn replied. The stout man smirked.

"That he is... Well! Come on in. Bring your fish," he said.

"We have to unload it, too?" Ramsay muttered.

"Think of it as reinforcing your loyalty to your current job," I murmured back, gathering some fish in a canvas bag and carrying it in. The rest of us followed, one by one depositing the catch into the larder in the back of the tavern. The tavern owner's wife and children set to smoking the fish, filling the air of the cramped space with something other than the horrific stench outside. For that, I was grateful.

It didn't take too long to get it all inside, and after that the owner gave us a smile and directed us upstairs.

"You'll find what you be needin' up there, Mister...?"

"Underhill, and associates," I spoke up. Bronn turned a glare on me, and I winced. "Sorry master."

Bronn gave me a smack, and I grunted. I felt Ramsay tense nearby, but a quick glance from me made him stand down.

"Show some respect, damnit!" Bronn grumbled. He looked to the tavern keeper. "Sorry about that... New meat. Still think he's got things to say worth hearin'."

"Bah," the tavern owner grunted, "I blame the Wolves! With all their fancy magic and mechs... Think they can turn the world upside down!" He shook his head. "It ain't natural!"

"No disagreement here," Bronn said. "Come on lads! Up we go... You sleep on the floor," Bronn growled at me. I looked downcast, appropriately brow beaten. We trudged up the steps, Bronn opening one of the doors for us. We shuffled in, and he shut it behind us with a last evil glare at me.

"... Think they bought it," Bronn said cheerfully.

"I guessed that's what you were doing," I said dryly. "That or you wanted an excuse to get paid for hitting me."

"Do I get paid for hitting you, my lord?" Bronn asked, looking quite serious.

"Do it again, and I'll flay you an inch at a time," Ramsay snarled. I rested a hand on Ramsay's shoulder.

"Easy Ramsay... My mouth does get me in trouble often," I said. "I'm just glad this wasn't one of those cases..." I shrugged off my tattered robes, as my fellow infiltrators did the same. I set down my large pack on the bed, and opened the clasps as Bronn lit some candles. Oberyn just chuckled, and I looked up at him.

"What?" I asked. He pointed under the bed. I stooped down, hand on my weapon... And spotted a snoozing Meera, her arms tight around her new sniper rifle. I snickered.

"I didn't know she snored," I said.

"I did," Ramsay said.

"So did I," Oberyn volunteered, getting a _look_ from Ramsay. The Dornish prince just smiled at him. I sighed and walked over to the meager table in the room, where Bronn was unfurling a map of the Red Keep.

"Darling, you really should try to help me with the kids," I said dryly. "I feel like I'm the only one doing any work in this relationship!"

Bronn raised an eyebrow at me. "Given how hard it is to look at you, I _am_ doin' all the work!"

I grinned, and clapped him on the shoulder. "You're getting a raise for that."

"I don't work for you yet, my lord."

"You're complaining?"

"No," Bronn smirked, as Oberyn, Ramsay and a roused Meera shuffled over to the table, "just making things clear..."

"Apologies," Meera said. "Getting over the wall was a bit exhausting... I needed a break."

"No big deal," I said. "You find anything significant around us?"

Meera glanced at Bronn, then back at me. "This tavern doesn't seem to have attracted any real attention," she said. "There was a little after the Goldcloaks stopped by for an inspection, but they moved on."

"Good, we don't have to wait on them," Bronn said. He gestured to the map. "I suggest one last run through before we go-Never know what we'll expect." He walked over to a chest in the corner of the room, and shoved it aside. He pulled up floorboards, and began pulling Goldcloak uniforms out. He set it in a pile beside him, as the rest of us looked over the map of the Red Keep.

"Okay," I said, after looking it over. "Meera? You remember where to set up shop with the rifle?"

"Here," she said, pointing to a guard tower near the main entrance. "Easy enough to get up there, now that I've rested."

"Don't forget to plant your bombs here, and here," I said, my finger on points just above the gatehouse. "If we have to leave in a hurry, I'm hoping the gatehouse coming down will be enough to keep any pursuit from catching us."

Meera nodded. I looked at Ramsay and Oberyn.

"Royal Apartments are in Maegor's Keep, on the third level," I said, pointing there. "We have to get across the drawbridge. Ramsay, remember to plant bombs on the drawbridge mechanisms: If we need it, it should be a good excuse to run."

"Ah, yes, most people run away from things exploding," Oberyn said with a sage nod.

"Other than that...?" I looked at Meera. "Meera, remember the flare colors. Green, everything's fine and mission is accomplished. Yellow, we're going to need some help. And red-"

"Blow the gatehouse with one bomb, then use the other to blow a hole in the wall for another escape route," Meera said automatically. She scowled. "I _remember."  
_  
"Well now I know," I said dryly. "We have a lot of things to get right... And I'd prefer to get this done without anyone knowing we were here." I looked at Ramsay. "That _means..._ No assassinating Joffrey, or the Queen, or anyone else unless we _absolutely need to."  
_  
"You're right," Ramsay said with a nod, "I wouldn't have enough time to have real fun with him anyway."

I decided to skip asking if that was a joke: Given Ramsay, it probably wasn't.

"All right," I said, taking a deep breath... And immediately regretting it. "Let's get going... I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."

"Before or after yer face stops being so green, milord?" Bronn asked, handing me a cloak and helmet. I rolled my eyes.

"Shut up..."

 **LXIV: The Wolf in the Night, Part 1**

 _AC 300, Antlers, the Crownlands  
_  
 **Roose Bolton  
**

Roose Bolton held his own council on many things, especially those to do with the New North and the rise of industry. His sons had both accomplished much, in their own ways: One a genius inventor feared across the realm, the other an accountant who had helped House Bolton's fortunes redouble every year. His house was feared and respected, where before they were merely feared. And the process of turning metal, shit, and dirt into weapons of war that mowed down hundreds of men... Roose could not have dreamed of such amazing possibilities. Not in a thousand years.

Yet here they were. Following their Wolf King, slaughtering anything stupid enough to oppose them. True power. True prestige.

The Boltons had tried to take back the North, many times. Stabs in the back, flaying in the night. The Starks had repulsed them each time, their "kindness" and "compassion" seen as mere weakness. Yet it was that same kindness that had won them Theon Greyjoy, and made them what they were. Iron, steel, oil, fire: All well enough on their own, yet even Roose could comprehend the bonds between men that facilitated this. Like the interlacing tendons and muscles that let a man move, laid bare.

How small, how _feeble_ his ancestors had been. Oh, Roose would never surrender the glory of the knife: The pleasure of the kill. But there were other pleasures in life.

Being admired. Being applauded. The look in the eyes of those he outmaneuvered in a business deal or trade agreement. The disbelieving looks on the faces of the Southrons as the wonders his son and Theon Greyjoy devised destroyed them. They did not comprehend this power, this genius. To them, the Northmen were like demons or gods astride the battlefield. Utterly incomprehensible, their traditions and valor failing them like pleas to the gods from cornered prey.

All this, Roose Bolton enjoyed. All this convinced Roose Bolton that the Starks could lead the North. That they were still strong. And what was a Bolton if not an admirer of strength and cunning? What did a Bolton wish to be if not strong?

"My Lord, the raiders are about to break into sight of Antlers," his captain, a young Lord Slick, spoke urgently. Roose slowly looked at the captain, reflecting that the young man did not cringe at his gaze.

"Show me," he ordered. The captain bowed, and led his commander out of the tent. Roose strode through the encampment in the woods, his men offering bows or salutes as he passed. He returned it, inwardly musing again.

After all, many of these men served houses who always jockeyed for position. Tried to get one over on the Dreadfort's masters. Tried to climb higher. In another time, he might have sent these men off to their deaths to ensure they could not threaten his position.

Now? They followed him almost without question. The rivalries were contained to courts and business... And to sports, of course.

Killing them off in war would be wasteful. They all contributed something, yet all went to his benefit and their own. Curious, so curious...

They reached the edge of the woods, a command post dug into the ground disguised with nets covered in leaves and grass. He stepped down into the small bunker, his staff waiting. Among them was a tall, dark skinned girl with the gear around her neck: A Gearwife. What was her name again...?

"Sanya Waywood, my Lord," she spoke. She held out a farseer. "Latest model."

He took it, noting that the girl blushed a bit when she saw him. That too was hard to get used to: That women would turn red and wet merely at the sight of him! Or because of his voice, he supposed. He looked through the glasses as Captain Slick stood by him.

The raiders had split into three groups-Moving fast, using the dark colors of their coats and the twilight of the setting sun to make themselves harder to see as they galloped around Antlers. The old castle's defenders had several torches and beacons lit up. Strangely, even in the growing darkness he could see very, _very_ well...

The defenders were letting loose many arrows, and he counted them as he observed. Strange... They seemed to have many more than before...

A burst of fire erupted from the battlements, and hundreds of flaming arrows left the castle. Most of the raiders evaded, but many were hit, falling to the ground. Roose felt his captain wince next to him, watching through his own farseer. Again, it was strange: He would have ordered Slick flayed for such weakness in the past.

Yet here he was, not flaying him. Instead, he gave him orders:

"Have the raiders return immediately," Roose spoke. "I wish to know exactly what that is."

"Aye my lord," Slick said quickly. He motioned to some of the men, and a few flares were launched from the trees in random areas. It took some time, but the raiders returned. The leader of them, a Lord-Lieutenant Snowbane, reported almost immediately. Roose listened to his observations: Of carts on the battlements, the number of men manning the castle, and the number of their men lost. When Snowbane was finished, Roose looked to Waywood.

"Gearwife Waywood: These fire carts. What are they?"

"I'd have to observe them for myself, my Lord," she said carefully, "but from the description they seem to be crude rocket weapons: Like fireworks. Just attach them to arrows, light the arrows, and you can shower the enemy with fire arrows."

"What kind of range can we expect from such weapons?" Roose asked again. Waywood did some work on her slide rule, humming thoughtfully.

"Based on Lord Snowbane's report? A thousand yards at least."

"Very well," Roose nodded. "Captain Slick? Prepare the men for a night action. I want the artillery concentrated on the battlements: Cease fire when we launch the green flare. While we march, have several troops carrying torches move about the treeline. I wish to give the impression of a major force organizing for an attack from this direction."

"Aye my lord," Captain Slick said with a nod.

It was relatively straightforward from there: Organizing the assault force, and marching them through the woods. A few stragglers fell, but their comrades got them moving again. All following him, and his sigil on the back of his longcoat. All in awe.

They broke through the tree cover, their own torches extinguished. They had to move by the light of the stars and half moon above now, and the light provided by the castle. Indeed, the artillery was firing: At this range though, their shots were not as accurate as he'd hoped. Striking the battlements directly was optimistic: Many holes were appearing in the lower walls and towers, but not the battlements.

Roose supposed that even with slide rules, such bombardments were difficult at night. He would speak to his son about combining these new farseers with their artillery...

They passed through a marsh, quickly. Yet it was easy to see that the defenders of the castle could see them. Much jeering and shouting was being issued from the battlements as they approached. Roose checked through his farseer: Yes, they were scrambling fire carts of some sort. They would fire and pelt his troops with flaming arrows. That would be unfortunate.

"Soldier, your Rocketfaust," he ordered a man in armor nearby. The man paused and immediately slid his weapon from his shoulder, handing it to him. Roose knelt in the marshy ground, setting the weapon on his shoulder. "Hold the glasses to my eyes," he ordered. "You men, form ranks and open fire when I give the order."

"Aye sir!"

"Yes sir!"

The young man held the glasses to Roose's eyes. He checked the iron sight of the weapon, did some figures in his head, checked again. The glasses let him see the smug face of the man holding a torch, to light up the carts. He pulled the trigger.

 _BOOM!_ The rocket was launched, screaming up for the battlements. Roose was able to see the terror on the face of the young man just before the rocket impacted. Then he had to look away: The carts were exploding, covering the top of the castle gatehouse with flames.

"Open fire!" Roose bellowed, and the bangs of several muskets rang out. It was easy for his men to make targets, given most of them were on fire. Roose procured another Rocketfaust, and ran ahead with a few troops. His musketeers continued firing on the battlements, as the artillery continued to barrage the castle. He held the weapon up, and targeted the doors.

 _BOOM!_ The doors exploded from the shot, many cries of dismay greeting him. Roose pointed the flare up and ignited it, bolts of green fire shooting into the air. The pounding of the artillery ceased. Roose look back at his captain.

"Take this castle! Charge!" He ordered. Slick nodded, and sounded the charge on his horn. The men bellowed in glee, and they rushed into the burning castle. Guns and swords and spears greeting the defenders. Roose cut the head off a lad trying to skewer him with a spear, then blew the guts out of a fat man wielding an axe with his Viper. What few knights there were tried to challenge them in combat: He shot them dead.

As his captain presented the Lannister flag to him, and his men cheered his name around him, Roose Bolton looked around. He waved and nodded, enough to show his gratitude to his men. It would have been difficult taking the castle all by himself, after all. Yet they acted like he had.

Strange. Very strange... And stranger still when the Gearwife from before happily spread her legs for him in his tent. He hadn't needed to force her at all!

All she wanted was him to sing for her. And he supposed that wasn't too much of a price to pay.

Still... The future was just not what he'd expected it to be. And yet, rather than being upset about that... He was content!

Strange... So strange...

 **LXV: Operation Virtuous Mission, Part 3**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, The Crownlands  
_  
 **Theon  
**

The trek to the Red Keep didn't take too long from the tavern-We just had to follow the wall, as the four of us tromped along in our Goldcloaks and other assorted attire. There were few people who met our eyes or even stayed in our way. Even in the darkness, the white cloaks of the city guard stood out.

"We're getting a lot of attention," Oberyn murmured to Bronn, marching ahead of myself and Ramsay.

"Good. It's the right kind of attention," Bronn responded softly. We turned the corner of a dilapidated manse, the great gates of the Keep rising like a mountain against the stars ahead of us. I shook my head as Ramsay mumbled something.

"Yeah... It's unreal how big it all is, isn't it?" I muttered to Ramsay. My friend and sort of apprentice nodded.

"Such a structure is so absurdly huge... The engineering required... Why go through the effort?"

"Showing off, of course," I said dryly. "Come on Ramsay, why else do we make things that blow up?"

"It's fun, of course," Ramsay said. "Also, doesn't take nearly as long as it would to build something completely unnecessary."

"We'll just have to accept that the Southerners have strange ideas of what's impressive," I said.

"Only you could look upon the Red Keep and call it unimpressive," Oberyn chuckled.

"No, it is very impressive... Just inefficient," I said. "Seriously, all this time spent waving your cocks at one another. Could have been put to so much better use."

"Yes. Instead, you make steel cocks that shoot bits of metal to kill men at long range," Bronn observed. "Nothin' about cock wavin' there."

"That serves a real purpose," Ramsay said defensively. "It's not a bluff: It's actually accomplishing something. Namely, the deaths of your enemies."

"So, it's less how big it is and more about what you can do with it?" Oberyn chuckled. "I applaud you, young Boomsquid. You have great wisdom as well as brains!"

"And cockwaving that kills men at several hundred yards. Not bad," Bronn said, still marching perfectly as we rounded another bend. I sighed.

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," I muttered.

"What's a cigar?" Asked Oberyn. I rolled my eyes.

"Nevermind..."

"As much as I'd like to know... We're enterin' the main plaza. Be silent and look scary," Bronn said. "Don't answer questions, just glare."

"How's this?" I asked, glaring. Bronn and Oberyn gave me a glance, then looked ahead.

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever works, lad," Bronn said.

I frowned, and looked at Ramsay. "That bad?"

"No, no... It's just fine, Theon," Ramsay said with a nod. "Very intimidating."

"You're a terrible liar," I muttered. Ramsay shrugged.

"That's what the gun is for," he said.

"Shut it," Bronn hissed, as we stepped out onto the main thoroughfare. I sighed and glared at anyone who entered my field of vision. Fortunately there were not many people out: Mostly guards. They glared at me, I glared back. The main thoroughfare was largely deserted, a grand road right to the gates of the Keep.

We passed several statues and platforms, probably of many important guys. I couldn't be bothered to remember them. Or read their exploits. Look, I had a lot of things to do, and I didn't remember all the miscellany of the universe I got downloaded into. Give me a break. I'm sure it'll come up in _Winds of Winter_ or something. Be very, very important.

We reached the gates after far too long a hike. Honestly, no wonder they were stuck in the middle ages for so long: They had to build this crap and maintain it.

That and everything else. Like the tendency to hang dead bodies on walls. Like, a lot of them.

"Our boy's been busy," I mumbled. Ramsay snorted as we marched through the gates, only getting cursory looks from the guards standing watch.

"Completely amateurish," Ramsay said. "You can't see the bodies clearly, just one spike shoved through their stomach... They'll fall off in no time. You'll lose any intimidation factor you had if you have your victims sliding off their poles."

"Is it bad that I'm agreeing with him?" Bronn muttered. He looked around. "Follow me."

We walked across the vast open courtyard, trying to keep in formation. I looked around, studying the torch lit apartments and troops surrounding us. It seemed far too... Relaxed, for a city under siege. Too few soldiers. Too few people.

"This seems... Too easy," I muttered.

"You're complaining?" Oberyn asked.

Ramsay hummed. "Nobody's challenged us yet."

"The Unsullied wouldn't be kept in the city proper," Bronn said. We went up massive steps, rising from the courtyard to the massive pedestal supporting Maegor's Keep and the other main buildings of the castle. A few servants were out and about, amid the gardens. Which even in starlight were very pretty.

"No... But I am concerned about a city under siege just letting four Goldcloaks patrol wherever they want," I mumbled. "Not even asking us for our ID?"

"Considering how they've been treating the servants under the King's orders, it doesn't surprise me," Bronn said flatly. "Unless you really think I'm going to betray you while your friend has a Viper at my back?"

"He doesn't have it out yet," I muttered.

"Don't tempt me to change that," Ramsay grumbled.

We made it to Maegor's Keep, walking across a drawbridge. I tried not to look up at the spikes on the Keep. I knew I'd just be looking for my father's head. And Nursey's. I know, they'd probably have rotted away by now but... I didn't need that distracting me.

"Drawbridge gears," I muttered to Ramsay. He nodded, and he pulled out dynamite from his pack. I pulled out a stick from my pack as well, and slid it under the gears. We stood up, the shadows concealing us. I hoped, anyway. We took a few faster steps, keeping up with Bronn and Oberyn.

We took a corridor to the right and ascended the stairs. The castle offered some protection from the horrible stench of the city outside, torches burning, tapestries decorating the walls.

"It's not supposed to be this quiet, is it?" Oberyn asked.

"I didn't lurk out in the corridors, I had minions for that," Bronn said. "Besides, you're paying me enough not to betray you."

"You're acting a bit defensive," I said, as we walked up the staircase. I slid my hand under my cloak, checking my revolver. Yes, it was still there.

"Again: A Bolton with a Viper at my back," Bronn stated. We made it to a floor decorated in rich golden tapestries, stags and lions emblazoned across all of them. The torches were burning brightly. There was plush carpet, too.

"Royal Quarters," Oberyn murmured. I waved Bronn forward.

"After you," I said.

"So different from before," Bronn observed. I rolled my eyes again. I was doing that a lot on this mission.

We walked down the corridor, our steps muffled by the carpet. We saw a member of the King's Guard standing in front of an ornate door. He stood up straighter as we approached.

"What is it?" He asked gruffly. Bronn smiled, stepping forward up close.

"Bit of an issue outside, milord."

"What sort of iss-URK," the King's guard member was soon unable to say anything else. In my expert scientific opinion, it was because of the dagger in his throat. Bronn yanked the knife out, and shoved the gurgling corpse aside. Oberyn grabbed him and scowled at Bronn.

"Are you kidding? You can't just cut his throat like that!"

"Why not?" Ramsay asked. I sighed.

"The mess?" I asked. Ramsay frowned and shrugged.

"So we shove him into another room. Simple."

Oberyn did that, betraying that he'd had a bit too much experience in hauling bodies around. I decided not to think about it, and looked over the door. Bronn tried the handle.

"Locked," he said. I rolled my eyes.

"Of course it is," I said. I pulled out a package and bent over to stuff it into the keyhole. I pulled out a flare, and snapped it on.

"Back up everyone," I said. "Ramsay? Pull the carpet up."

"Of course," Ramsay said happily, pulling the rug up. Bronn and Oberyn both backed up, the latter closing the door he'd hidden the unfortunate knight behind.

"It's not going to explode, is it?" Bronn asked. "Would be a bit noticeable if it did."

"No, it's something called thermite. It will just melt the door lock and let us get in without having to make a lot of noise breaking it down," I said, a bit testily, as I pulled my goggles on. "Don't look directly at it."

I pressed the flare to the package, and backed up as it threw out a shower of sparks. The keyhole glowed bright white, and soon melted into slag onto the floor. The wooden door began to burn too, which I quickly put out with a handful of sand from my pack. I kicked the door open, pulling my revolver. Ramsay followed me, yanking out his Viper.

"Sansa? Hello?" I called. "It's Theon... Here to rescue you? I brought Bronn and Ramsay!"

Silence. I looked over at Ramsay, who sighed and stepped back.

"I mean... Ramsay stayed behind!"

Still nothing. I rushed over to a nearby door, and yanked it open. Nothing. Ramsay and Bronn checked the other doors, while Oberyn knelt down by a little table and sampled the wine. I frowned deeply, as Bronn looked at me. He wore a helpless expression.

"They should be here! They're not gonna be anywhere else!" He said.

"Ramsay, no killing him," I said sternly. Ramsay pouted, as Bronn looked relieved. "Well, where did they go?"

"With the Unsullied? Unlikely," Oberyn said, sniffing the wine. "If I had to say... The Queen Mother and her offspring would flee to the only safe place left..."

A block of ice dropped into my stomach. "Oh... Shit..." I looked at Bronn. "Where would they go?"

"King's Wood. Plenty of ways to a boat that your Navy wouldn't spot," Bronn said quickly, "and one o' Tyrion's plans had that as an escape route-"

"Best shot then, let's go!" I ordered. I stormed out the door... And then backed up as several Goldcloaks emerged from the stairs. They rushed the door. I slammed them shut, and Bronn shoved a dresser in front of it. Loud pounding issued forth, as we met in the center of the royal apartments.

"Can I kill him yet?" Ramsay growled. I sighed and lightly whapped the side of his helmet.

"Not helping in this situation, Ramsay. For whatever reason, they're after us."

"I assume you have a brilliant plan to get us out of here then, Lord Boomsquid?" Bronn asked earnestly. I smiled cheerfully, and pulled out a stick of dynamite.

"... One that doesn't involve blowing up everything?" Bronn furthered pressed. I shrugged.

"Not _everything..."_


	29. Omake - Winter is Coming : Part II

**Omake - Winter is Coming : Part II**

 __

Jon Snow had done hard things in his life before. __

Facing the Lady Stark day in - day out as she showered Robb and her trueborn children with affection and love, before turning as frigid as a Northern Winter when he walked in with them. _  
_That had been hard. __

Leaving Winterfell, the only home he had even known, for the uncertainty of The Wall? Listening to the warnings from Theon -the man deadly serious for once as he packed- that once he took the black, he could _never_ leave. His own family would have no choice but to execute him if he decided he didn't like it and wanted to run away... _  
_That had been hard, but a decision he felt he _needed_ to make; to make his own place in this world. A decision his father had supported in full, reminding he and everyone else of the long and glorious history of Starks serving the wall, from Brandon the Builder all the way to his Uncle right now. __

Then the day he learned his Father was dead and had to face the choice of what to do. Having to choose between the oaths he had sworn to the Gods and the blood screaming in his veins to leave and avenge his Father. With only the sage words of Theon breaking through in the end to remind him that Robb would _not_ be able to accept his help. That Robb in fact would have no choice but to _kill_ him … and the thought of forcing his brother into _that_ position had put something of a break on his fury. _  
_But it had been hard. _So_ hard to not grab a horse and ride out of Castle Black anyway. To avenge his Father, even if he had to do it himself and it cost him his life... __

But sitting now in the refurbished Shield Hall of Castle Black as most of the senior Brothers present took their seats to hear his report? Feeling the weight of the responsibility the Lord Commander had charged him with? __

Jon tried not to dwell on it for now, instead letting his gaze wander around the room as tardy brothers continued to file in. The massive building had been used little over the last few centuries, a consequence of the slowly diminishing numbers of their order. Traditionally, Knights who chose to take the black would ceremoniously hang their personal shields in this hall before being issued the black shields of the Night's Watch - back when the Watch was an honorable choice of service for such people and not a form of internal exile anyway. The building had also served as the officer's hall when the order had been far larger - and as numbers had dwindled, eventually it had been more or less abandoned in favor of the cheaper to maintain Great Keep. _  
_However like most of the other buildings at Castle Black, it too had felt the whirlwind of the Northern Guilds that swept through. Once a decrepit building poorly illuminated and filled with crows -the birds, not the Brothers- it was now well illuminated through glass windows during the day, or mirrored oil lamps high in the ceiling at night. The holes in the roof had been fully patched, tables remade and new insulation put in place that cut back on the cost of heating it considerably. Now the only crows who nested in the building were the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch while the swarms of new recruits had all but taken over the Great Keep. In here the 'serious' business of the order took place __

In a very real way, the Shield Hall was now the spiritual heart of the entire order. There were still a sad few dozen shields on the wall, a far cry from the hundreds upon hundreds once there, but now they were no longer the only color in the room. Facing the shields on the opposite wall was a 'gift' from the Builders of the order who had taken umbrage with the generally strictly functional restoration work, determined to soften the grim utilitarianism of the rebuilding. An impressive mosaic of color covered the entire opposite wall, made up of _hundreds_ of house sigils from across the Seven Kingdoms. It symbolically symbolized that from all over Westeros did the Brothers of the Night's Watch come - but Jon was half convinced that the Builders had done it simply to give many of the elder members of the watch -who viewed the use of _any_ colors in their fortifications other than black as heresy- heart attacks. __

In the end though, the Lord Commander had approved of the symbolism of the gesture and so it stayed, no matter how much some might have grumbled. Right _now_ though, the overly colorful wall seemed to mock the incredible seriousness of the situation and Jon turned away from it, focusing his attention solely on the High Table at the front of the room. Behind the table, into the new marble layer over the stone there, the names of all nine hundred and ninety seven Lord Commanders (minus a few left blank like the 13th) had been engraved and Jon took strength from their names and deeds. _  
_He had _never_ asked nor wanted this responsibility ... but he had sworn his oath to the Watch … and by the Old Gods and New he _would_ fulfill it. __

As if in counterpoint to his determination, a door slammed open behind them and Jon stood, keeping his face blank as Alliser Thorne stormed up from the doorway to the high table without a word or a glance to anyone. Bowen Marsh, the Lord Steward and Othell Yarwyck the Chief Builder were already waiting for him, as was a third empty chair next to them reserved for the still missing First Ranger (who Jon tried hard not to think about). On the other side of Ser Allisers chair was that of the Lord Commander and next to _that_ empty place were Maester Aemon and a scribe from the Stewards. Scattered around the flanks of the room were a further dozen members of the Watch including Donal Noye and Janos Slynt -for some reason Jon did not care to ask about- while others who _should_ have been here such as Bowen Marsh remained at their posts; understandably preoccupied with the Wildling 'army' on the other side of the wall. __

Ser Alliser reached his chair quickly enough, the other brothers on the High Table sitting as the man currently technically in charge approached and waved them back to their seats, sitting down in turn and fixing _him_ with a rather direct look. __

Or to be perfectly honest; a glare. __

Well, _this_ glare certainly put the looks the Lady Stark had often given him into their proper perspective; he would give the man full credit for that. __

 _"_ There are twenty thousand wildlings holding in the haunted forest, so we will get right to the point" Alliser started without any formality. "The final raven we received from the Lord Command came well over a moon-turn ago. It stated" and he held up the slightly battered paper in question, " _Have reached the Fist. Successfully rendezvoused with the Half Hand. Confirmed large Wildling presence, numbers match early estimates. Plan to send Ranger team to assassinate Mance and disperse enemy. Will advise on completion".  
_ Ser Alliser put down the message and focused in on Jon standing in front of most of the surviving group from the Great Ranging. _  
"_ And now after no word for all these weeks, _you_ show up _Steward_ Snow. Show up leading forty men - including several more senior Rangers" he added, his gaze switching to glare at said men in the rows behind him for a moment -who were senior enough to glare right back mind you and did so- before he turned his attention back. "Forty out of Three _hundred_ \- and in case we forget, with near twenty thousand Wildlings a few hours behind that you _insist_ that we not attack until you have explained yourself. Would you say this is a correct assessment of the immediate situation, Steward Snow?" __

 _"_ Yes Ser Alliser" he responded calmly, deciding that keeping his answers simple and to the point would probably be the best bet here, knowing that any attempt to mouth off at the other, no matter his exhaustion or how much the other was clearly _enjoying_ pushing him, would be a _bad_ idea. __

 _"_ Then by all means, _Lord Snow"_ the other asked him in a voice that somehow managed to both sound perfectly polite _and_ utterly insulting at the same time. " _Explain yourself._ Why are they all here … "then his eyes narrowed "and what by all the Gods Old and New _happened_ out there?" __

 _"_ Aye Ser Alliser" he agreed and with a deep breath, Jon Snow started to tell his story.

 _Wind screamed and howled sending flurries of snow near horizontally, but the roaring din did not quite cover the screams and panic of people around the Fist of the First Men. Tens of thousands of men, women and children screamed and indeed even the occasional clash of swords could be heard as humans fought humans in the chaos; all trying to escape the advance of the ancient enemy._

 _But there was no sound from the approaching threat._

 _No battle cries.  
No roars of defiance.  
No drums or trumpets.  
No gleeful cries of battle lust or shouts of command._

 _Silent and indifferent, the dead simply advanced out of the storm in ever greater numbers with the patience and inevitably of their masters._

" _Lord Commander" Jon shouted over the icy wind as he made his way to where Jeor Mormont was conversing with the Halfhand, Ghost as ever at his side. "They're getting close - we need to leave_ now _if we're going to get clear before we're cut off!"_

" _Aye" the other replied grimly, turning to Qhorin Halfhand and the three, near four dozen brothers standing grimly behind him. Every single one of the men Qhorin had brought with him had stepped forward when Qhorin had volunteered to stay behind and draw off as many of these enemies as possible. Jon had learned something about leadership in that moment; noting that the Lord Commander hadn't tried to talk them out of it or give any long speeches about glory or duty as all the children's tales would have one believe.  
Mormont had simply grimly accepted their choice as a brutal necessity, shook the offered hand of Qhorin silently and that was that._

 _It wasn't that the Lord Commander was unmoved by the sacrifice they were offering - it was just that he clearly knew there was a_ time _and_ place _to mourn …_ and this was not it _._

 _Their gruff farewells relayed along with pointless instructions to retreat once able, Jon followed the Lord Commander to their waiting horses. Behind them, the Halfhand and his men also started moving. Many of them grunting as they manhandled their Bolter and the last of its ammunition and crates of explosives into place, a small hill in the lee of the massive Fist, directly in the path of the thousands of figures silently closing in on them, the visibility currently down to only half a mile in the whipping winds. A few hundred wildlings joined Qhorin - Wildlings surprisingly well and uniformly equipped for folk beyond the wall. 'Thenns' he had heard them called - but whatever their name, he certainly couldn't doubt their bravery as they joined to form a rear guard to buy time for everyone else to flee._

" _Mance" the Lord Commander yelled to the unassuming man waiting for them, who was frantically sending orders and runners of his own out as tens of thousands stampeded South with little control or coherency. "We need to move! Now!"_

" _I know damn it I know!" the other shouted back. "I'm trying to get the word out to head South for Castle Black and save as much as possible but it's chaos out there! Go with this group" he didn't quite order, pointing at the largest group still barely under control. "I need to try and get control of this disaster!" he stated and with that, the King beyond the Wall turned and hurried away with several of his men following._

 _The Lord Commander glared at his retreating back, but turned to face his group of Brothers on their own horses as he sought out and then found the larger figure of Sam Tarley among them._

" _Tarley" he barked out, causing the other to look up, his expression and body language more than a little terrified from the way he was gripping his reins to the way his horse kept twitching in annoyance from the unconscious movements of the man on its back. "Did you send the Ravens?"_

 _The other simply stared at him. A stare that would have been very familiar to a lot of Lannister soldiers in the South after somehow surviving their first meeting with industrialized warfare._

 _Pure undiluted terror._

" _Tarley" the Lord Commander repeated, moving closer._ "Look at me".

 _Not even a terrified Sam could fight the sheer command in the others voice and slowly, his head came up._

" _Did. You. Send. The. Ravens?" The Lord Commander bit out, getting a jerky nod in return before his mouth finally moved._

" _I … I did Lord … Lord Commander, but…"_

" _But_ what?" _The other snapped harshly, clearly not in in the mood for any delays._

" _He sent the Ravens Lord Commander" Green stepped in quickly as Tarley stammered, "but, well, they didn't make it. They barely flew half a mile when they seemed to hit -or be hit by- a gust of snow and fell out of the sky, dead. Frozen solid they were"._

" _They froze to death? In the_ air _? While_ flying _?" The Lord Commander repeated with a look that would have shattered lesser people._

" _Aye, they fell out of the sky like stones" another Brother confirmed grimly._

 _The Lord Commander offered up a curse that would have made the most hardened veteran of the Watch wince, before he drew himself up as he hauled himself into his saddle._

" _Alright" he barked. "We're heading back to the wall, with these Wildlings. We're going to escort them there and get them through the Wall to safety"._

" _Lord Commander" one of the older Rangers, Aethan Jon thought, spoke up quickly in protest at the order. "Can we trust the Wildlings? If we're letting them behind the wall-"_

" _We either get them behind the wall and_ hope _they won't stab us in the back" Mormont snapped, "or we leave them to die out here knowing we'll be seeing them again - trying to stab us in our faces as part of_ that " _he said, jerking an arm to point in the direction of the oncoming hoard, before turning to take in the entire group of grim - and scared - looking Brothers. "We need to get back to the wall - as the Greyjoy often says, failure is_ not _an option. We have to warn them - warn_ everyone _. Because if we fail to get back ... I promise you that before winter is done, everyone you've ever known from here to Dorne will be_ dead" _._

 _No-one disputed his claim - and the sudden cracks of thunderarms from behind them added a new urgency as the first of the enemy moved into range of the Half Hands men. The masses of Wildlings running away seemed to somehow speed up just a bit more at the noise,_ none _daring to look back lest they see something was gaining on them._

" _Move out!" the Lord Commander roared - and Jon started his horse moving, ensuring his sword and pistols were ready for use. Ghost silently fell into step alongside as they started their long retreat, the horses having long gotten used to the presence of the Dire Wolf as the sound of battle intensified behind them._

 _The last he saw of the Half-Hand was a group of men with a thin line of wildlings ahead of them, starting to shoot at lines of vague shapes materializing through the whiteout of the storm._

"You are trying to claim that the Lord Commander intends to _let the Wildlings through the Wall?"_ Ser Alliser asked in pure disbelief. And Jon through his exhaustion fought hard to not roll his eyes at the fact the man had seemingly skipped past being told of an attack by _White Walkers_ on the ranging to focus in on _that_ fact.

"Yes Ser Alliser" Jon confirmed instead, marshaling his patience. "With the threat of the White Walkers verified, after a discussion with Mance Rayder, he agreed to let them settle onto The Gift so long as they agreed to stand with us and the Seven Kingdoms when the Walkers came-"

"And you expect us to believe this? You think we can _trust_ them? Trust them to not simply run as far South as they can as soon as they're through the wall, killing and murdering their way across our lands?" the man almost exploded at him.

Jon saw the trap and neatly sidestepped it. Who'd have thought all those half drunken arguments with Theon and Robb about politics would come in so handy?

"It is not my place to question the orders of the _Lord Commander_ Ser Alliser, merely to _obey_ them" he replied levelly. _That_ got nods from several of the Brothers on the high table - and a new glare from Ser Alliser at the not exactly subtle implication that neither was it _his_ place to do so.

"Continue Jon Snow" the gravelly voice of Maester Aemon moved into the conversation, smoothly cutting off any rejoinders from the Master at Arms and drawing them back to the issue at hand. "You departed the Fist of the First Men in the company of the Wildlings…"

"Aye" Jon continued after a moment to collect himself. "We fled the Fist…"

 _The sound of gunfire had been decreasing Jon Snow noted, trying hard not to think about what that meant for the men they had left behind. The hundred thousand strong wildling camp had been scattered to hell in the panic of the attack and vanished into the snowstorm in a confused melee of various tribes following their leaders with little coordination. Mance had hurried off to try and regroup them - or at least pass on the message of where to reform- and had yet to return or send word. A number of the dead ...things... had attacked although not in any numbers - at least as best he could tell through the howling winds and relayed messages in their loose group. Coming singularly or in pairs they were relatively easy to dispatch by sword and spear - but not thunderarm. Their orders were to hoard their ammunition as long as possible. But so easily in fact in fact did the enemy fall that Jon wondered if he might have overestimated the threat._

 _His hopes were dashed soon enough though as it became clear that these dead parodies of people were_ not _mindless beasts but were acting with a terrifying intelligence. Those that attacked them were merely the outriders to encourage them to keep moving. Far larger numbers of wights could be glimpsed occasionally through the snow or heard in the distance pressing after other Wildlings to splinter the once great army and their presence forced them to shift more and more West rather than taking the straight route south to the Shadow Tower. Jon had seen the tactic used by predators like wolves before; slicing a herd of prey up into manageable 'chunks' to be dealt with at their leisure - but something in Jon's mind smoldered in rage at the thought of it being done to_ people _. That they were apparently little more than helpless sheep to be picked off a few at a time by the reckoning of these_ things _..._

 _His brooding was interrupted however as a loud tremor of thunder rumbled through the air. Almost at the same time, the howling gale seemed to slacken, the sky clearing up to let him get a glimpse of the remains of a_ massive _explosion somewhere near the fist, now some distance away through the trees._

 _All of them knew what it meant and after several glances, they started moving again at their surprisingly brisk pace to keep up with the Wildlings. They had left most of their explosives with the Half Hand in their haste to flee and the cracking of grenades being used up had carried for some time even through the howling storm. But an explosion_ that _big could only mean that their fifty pounds or so of dynamite - almost the entire stockpile the Night's Watch_ had- _had just been set off. Probably by the last men left alive._

 _If nothing else, Jon supposed it would at least make sure their enemy couldn't make any use of their corpses, which he supposed was a victory of a sort._

 _The explosion also seemed to have somehow stalled their pursuit as they fled through the forest for the rest of the day at a punishing pace. The brothers on their horses didn't feel it near as much, using their mobility to maintain a thin perimeter around Wildlings, even gathering a few other small groups back to the fold who any other day would have attacked them without hesitation but today were far too terrified to care that they were supposed to be enemies. The Lord Commander later in the day, as they finally started to get a handle on this mess, had sent out a scouting force to try and see if they could swing south. But the scouts had come back quickly to report a storm in that direction that looked suspiciously like the one that had come upon the Fist - and unleashed hell upon them.  
And one Ranger had sworn that he had heard faint screaming on the wind..._

 _Not one to take chances, the Lord Commander and the spokesman for the Wildlings, a huge man named Tormund Giantsbane had decided to make for a relatively nearby village that the Brothers had passed through on the way to the Fist. The clearing around the abandoned village was a decent size; enough at least to fit the Wildlings if they crowded a little, with some crude fortifications around the clearing they could improve on. Once there, they could catch their breath and wait out the night as best they could, see if their enemy was still following them or not and make their plans. Because anything was better than fleeing in a panic into the darkness where all you would need was one false alarm to scatter everyone beyond any control...and the predators silently waiting to pick them off one by one._

 _The lead scouts had reached the village in the late afternoon, with people staggering in after them, desperate to reach whatever shelter the village offered as the sun had slowly faded. Fires had soon been lit, the ruined rude buildings torn apart for dry wood. Theons new 'FireSticks' and 'FireStarters' had made starting fires casually easy to the astonishment of the Wildlings - or 'Free Folk' as they called themselves - and soon enough a wall of flame was fitfully burning in the deepening night around the camp as the exhausted wildlings who hadn't stopped running since leaving the Fist collapsed to find rest where they could._

 _Personally Jon thought the wall of fires around the camp was a bad idea - it was ruining their night vision meaning that anything could be hiding just a short distance away and they would never know it. And it was giving away their position for miles and miles, even through the thick forest._  
But then _he reminded himself,_ these people had been living and fighting the enemy for a lot longer than they had. And if they were still alive instead of part of the growing army of the dead, it probably mean they were doing something right...

 _The Lord Commander, seemingly possessed of endless reserves of energy had stalked around the camp, allowing the diminished group of Brothers to break out only the absolute minimum of rations despite their hunger. It was an order that had not gone down well with some of the newer recruits like Rast, Karl and Ollo who were perhaps_ too _used to their three good meals a day at Castle Black, but the contempt from the older rangers who had survived far longer beyond the wall with much less shut them up quickly enough. Seemingly as fresh as when he had awoken and unaffected by the horrors that had come forth the day before, Mormont had organized the watches, seen to their mounts and had other brothers start to take stock of their supplies before he finally taken his own rest. Jon had taken the first watch, sharing his meager ration with Ghost before the Dire Wolf went to sleep._

 _Not that Ghost really_ needed _to be fed, being perfectly capable of finding his own food on the move, but it was simply the principal of the thing in his mind.  
The pack looked after its own._

 _The night had, thank the Old and New Gods, passed without further attacks and the new day had brought clear skies and calm weather. It was slightly jarring to Jon that after the utter horror of the day before, everything was seemingly back to normal - except for the missing brothers they had left behind to die._

 _They had not set out at first light though, instead taking time to take full stock of their situation. And almost immediately run into problems._

 _Without Mance around to impose order, the 'Free Folk' seemed to revert to type all too easily. Some had been lucky enough to retain their possessions - others had fled from the approaching White Walkers with little more than the clothes on their back and most fell somewhere between the two extremes. Which meant their food state, always uncertain when on the move in large numbers, was now critical. But it was thought there was_ just _about enough food, more or less, to make it to the Wall if they all shared and could move quickly._

If _they shared._

 _And in the very best Wildling traditions, fights were on the verge of breaking out over that fact because few were willing to do so, at least without Mance glaring at them._

 _Tormund had intervened at that point, storming out to find the loudest troublemaker with the most supplies who refused to share. To the huge mans credit, Jon thought, he had_ tried _to appeal to the blindingly obvious logic of keeping everyone alive and preventing internal wars that could kill them all as quickly as the White Walkers. Or 'Others' as the Wildlings called them. But instead the agitator had ranted at him, called him a traitor and mockingly starting to suggest that he and the Lord Commander were bedding each other. At which point Giantsbane, moving faster than anyone Jon had ever seen, had seized the others crude Warhammer and casually beaten him into a literal bloody mess before the assembled crowds of people._

 _Even among the Wildlings, such a casual display of strength was intimidating and the people who had been agitating and sneering had gone silent, refusing to meet Giantsbane's eyes as he glared at them. With order temporarily restored, he'd tossed the hammer onto the corpse and ordered all the tribes elders to meet in his tent -_ now.

 _The situation then moved from bad to worse - it turned out their food situation was perhaps worse than they thought. Even if they shared out what they had among themselves evenly, it would be very much touch and go if they could reach The Wall. If they were delayed even a few days..._

 _At that point the Lord Commander had made a decision._

" _Snow" he asked softly while the two of them watched the Wildlings argue their situation from the back wall of the tent. Clearly without Mance around, the Wildlings were on the verge of falling apart. "What are_ our _food reserves?"_

" _Each remaining man has sufficient standard food rations to reach The Wall, plus one moonturn extra in the pack animals" he answered promptly, having checked the supplies were still with their pack animals this morning. "We also still have the extra rations that were for the Half Hands men"._

 _The other grunted in acknowledgement then stepped forward to the table, stopping the argument that had been getting more and more heated in its tracks._

 _A mixture of expressions came across the faces of the Eldars of the Free Folk at his sudden presence at their 'table' - a tree stump the tent had been erected around. Mostly sullen distrust, but under that Jon could see the fear and desperation. They had all seen the Night's Watch kill a thousand of their friends without loss -and a Giant to boot. They_ knew _their power now, even those who had never ventured near the wall in recent years now knew the stories they had been told were true. And they also knew that it was the sacrifice of fifty Crows and a handful of Thens that had held back the Others and their hoard long enough for them to get clear. And that such weapons turned against their common enemy might just save them …_ if _they could reach The Wall._

 _And_ if _the Watch let them behind it._

 _Because any dreams of forcing the wall had died a sudden death on the slopes of the Fist._

" _We have some spare food you can have" Mormont bluntly stated, causing a ripple of utter shock to pass through the expressions of the Wildlings at the table. As they realized that a 'crow' was sharing food with them. Unasked and unforced._

" _My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a crow" one of the Wildlings growled, his one good eye glaring at the Lord Commander who met his gaze without the slightest flinch._

 _Fortunately, his opinion seemed to be rather in the minority of the desperate people present._

" _So would mine - but_ fuck 'em _, they're dead" another Wildling sneered back - getting a lot more nods of approval before she turned to face Mormont. "How much food are we talking about?"_

" _Enough to feed five hundred people all the way to Craster's Keep. We have enough supplies there to replenish our own men, then feed say a thousand long enough to get them to The Wall"._

 _There was a rumble around the table, this time one of cautious optimism. If added to their own food supplies..._

" _Jon Snow" the Lord Commander continued and Jon stiffened on reflex at the tone of command. "Take charge of our rations. Leave every man enough to reach Craster's Keep, no more. Everything else, including the Half Hands supplies, bring them here to Tormund"._

" _Yes Lord Commander" he acknowledged the other, turning to leave._

" _Ygritte" Tormund rumbled and Jon paused with a tilt of his head as the huge man turned and pointed to him. "Go with him. Make sure none of our people interfere or try to get at the food before we get it here and divide it up fairly. If they_ do _, deal with them"._

" _Right" the other woman smiled and detached herself from the wall, reaching the door in two strides, shooting him an expectant look. "Coming_ Jon Snow?" she asked as she pushed through the tent's flap.

 _Jon bit back a reply as he followed her out, the two of them moving through the crowd around the tent and heading for where the corner the camp the men of the Night's Watch had claimed for their own._

" _Snow._ Jon _Snow" the other tested his name on her tongue suddenly. "What a_ strange _name that is for such a strange Crow"._

" _Well I'm sorry you don't like it" he said shortly as he tried to ignore the way her fiery hair bounced in the breeze as she kept pace with him, keeping a wary eye on the 'Free Folk' around him, most of whom were giving he -and the rifle slung over his shoulder- a wide berth. "And I'm sorry you don't like me"._

" _Who said I didn't like you?" she said, her smirk growing slightly. "I just find you_ strange _\- not many crows would spare a Wildling they had under their blade" she pointed out, Jon at once recalling their first meeting. The Halfhand had ordered her killed after it became clear she wasn't going to give up any real information - and they could hardly just let her go while they tried to move onwards and kill Mance. But something in Jon had balked at casually murdering a woman, a prisoner. And he had hesitated just long enough for more wildlings to arrive and force them to retreat.  
Even so he could have easily killed her and, aye, most Rangers wouldn't have hesitated to kill her if only to make sure she wouldn't try and shoot them in the back as they ran..._

 _Jon though had spared her and fled with the others, noting the shock in her eyes as he did so. And it seemed that for some reason she had become fascinated with him, always studying him from somewhere every time he looked around…_

" _There was no reason to kill you" he simply explained as he nodded to several Brothers at their not-an-encampment-inside-the-encampment as they approached, assuring them there was nothing to fear from the presence of the Wildling next to him_

" _Most Crows would say that there is no need for a_ reason _for a Crow to kill one of the Free Folk. Or aye, most of the Free Folk would say that there is no need for a reason to do the same to you - I know_ that _well enough" she scoffed._

 _At that, just before they reached the Black Brothers camp, Jon turned to fix her with a smirk of his own as a response came to mind. One that Theon -generally while drunk- had used_ annoyingly _often on him._

" _You know nothing, Ygritte" he retorted. "Wait here, I'll be back in a minute" he cut off any possible response, enjoying seeing the never ending smirk on_ her _face vanish for a moment at his response before he started to round up some Brothers to gather their food supplies._

"So you made a Wildling friend Jon Snow, well that's just _marvelous_ " Alliser snorted as he leaned back in his chair, regarding him with contempt. "Are we supposed to feel _happy_ that you have a girlfriend - who probably has the blood of other members of the Watch on her hands?"

Jon Snow marshaled his patience, unable to help but marvel at how rapidly Ser Alliser had gone in his mind from him _talking_ to Ygritte to apparently being in love with her. _Anything_ that made him look bad in the eyes of his Brothers, true or false.  
The others insults did grate a little … but Jon had spent many _many_ long years with Theon who was the master of, among many other things, 'snarking'. Robb had been a _very_ quick study in the art - as were both Bran and Arya come to think of it. To the despair of Lord and Lady Stark. But while the trueborn children of Eddard Stark could get away with a _lot_ in terms of copying Theon's smirking countenance, the 'Bastard of Winterfell' had needed to hold his tongue _much_ more than he opened it lest he be rounded on for not knowing his place by the Lady Stark or others in the Castle.  
The end result of _that_ was simply that he learned very quickly how to play the 'straight man' to Theon and Robb … and had become rather good at it.  
And Alliser Thorne, frankly, had _nothing_ on Theon Greyjoy.  
This time however, Maester Aemon stepped in before Jon could take the bait.

"I am not very concerned about Jon Snow doing what the Lord Commander told him to do Ser Alliser" the ancient man gently rebuked, again gaining a few nods from the other Brothers in the room. "To surmise what you have told us Jon Snow; the Half-Hand and near forty men from the Shadow Tower were lost at the Fist, covering the retreat of the rest of the Ranging from a large White Walker attack? Then, the Lord Commander formed an alliance with Mance Rayder agreeing to safe passage for the Wildlings onto The Gift, if they agreed to stand with the Night's Watch against the White Walkers? I take if you have some … proof of these orders with you?"

"Yes Maester" he confirmed, reaching into his field jacket and carefully removing a wax sealed envelope. "The orders from the Lord Commander" he declared for the record as he passed it off to the Clark, who confirmed the authenticity of the seal and broke it open to read the orders, before passing it along and leaning in to whisper into the Maesters ear what the paper had said.  
The orders _were_ rather straightforward, if shocking in their implications. Demands to let the Wildlings through the wall as soon as logistically practical and organize for them to settle them on the Gift, providing what support they could. And to sound the alarm to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms that the White Walkers were indeed back, operating openly and gathering quickly in strength beyond The Wall.

It wasn't every day one received orders to make peace with your life long enemy and were told that a nightmare out of legend had returned and was set on destroying all life on the planet.  
In Jon's opinion, they were taking it rather well. Even Ser Alliser seemed to have been shocked into something approaching calm consideration by the blunt handwriting of their leader.

Finally after the last had read the note, Bowen Marsh spoke up for the group.

"This note provides little information ... but it _is_ from the Lord Commander, written by his hand" he stated, his opinion accepted without comment as the man who by far had the most to do with the paperwork the Lord Commander dealt with. "The first question I have is this Jon Snow; the Lord Commander speaks of wounded at Craster's Keep he is staying with for now - explain this".

"Yes First Steward" he nodded, drawing himself up as he cast his mind back to continue the story...

 _It had been two weeks since the horror at the Fist of the First Men and their Enemy had not attacked them since. At least not in force._

 _But clearly, neither had they forgotten them._

 _Perhaps it was the First Men blood in his veins sensing something he could not see and warning him that_ they _were still out there. Perhaps it was the quiet alertness of Ghost at night, staring out beyond the bonfires into the forest at something too distant to see. Perhaps it was when the night's temperature dropped sharply and suddenly so that frost rolled in and fires started to splutter; when everyone seemed to feel a malevolent_ presence _hovering in the night just wanting for the frantic efforts to keep the fires going to fail...  
Or perhaps it was just plain military logic that a party moving this slowly and this large could not possibly have been lost by an enemy so powerful. At the very least, any half competent scout would be hard pressed to miss the enormous trail they were leaving behind them._

 _No. Jon was_ certain _they were out there. Watching, waiting. Letting them exhaust themselves as they fled and simply biding their time._

 _After a few days the Lord Commander had donated most of their horses to the Wildlings, turning them into pack animals for their supplies and injured, to help the group speed up their movement. Again, some of the newer members of the Watch had sullenly complained at that decision and being forced to walk, the usual suspects like Karl and Dirk doing their very best it seemed to antagonize the Wildlings for taking their horses until the Lord Commander had stepped in and threatened to leave them tied to a tree for the Walkers if they didn't shut up. Things remained tense between the two groups, but luckily everyone was focused on surviving and most were too busy to fight with each other. They would be up moving as soon as sun rose and would march with scant time for rest until the sun fell, setting up camp and wondering if this night_ they _would come. No-one - even the Brothers in their top quality field gear - was warm and everyone was scared, trying not to jump at every shadow, cold breeze or distant thunderclap.  
A week past in a blur. Day folding into night and into day, interrupted by what little sleep they could snatch in the brutal pattern until finally they reached their first key objective ... another abandoned village._

 _This village straddled a river; a tributary of the river that wound its way into The Gorge and then the Bay of Ice. A narrow ford connected the two banks and a village or settlement had existed here in some form or another for thousands of years on both sides of the river. For tonight, the Night's Watch had moved across to set up camp on the Southern side while the Free Folk settled onto the Northern side. Ygritte had confided to Jon that some of the more superstitious Free Folk believed that the Others would be provoked into attacking when they crossed the nominal boundary - and so were perfectly happy for the 'Crows' to 'test the waters' and risk their wrath first._

 _It turned out they were only half right_

 _It had been in the hour of the wolf when the alarm was sounded. Jon had rolled to his feet with hundreds of other brothers packed in a tight defensive position on the ford, shaking off his sleep as he hurried to the commotion, an icy chill running down his spine that had little to do with the freezing night air as he took in the situation as three horn blasts sounded.  
A horde of dead men were silently hauling themselves out of the river onto the ford.  
Apparently, they had walked along the riverbed unseen and undetected until they came upon the ford, breaching it in a great wave before turning to throw themselves at the wildling camp._

 _Whatever the reason for their choice of target, the few exhausted Wildlings who had managed to stay awake on guard duty were largely overcome in the first moments as the dead pressed their attack hard. The few that were left and the few who held their ground rather than fleeing into the camp in terror found themselves fighting an enemy pressing forward with an utter indifference to casualties and a complete lack of fear. Despite the steep banks of the river and relatively tight quarters they had to work with, the horribly outnumbered and terrified defenders were swiftly seized and torn to pieces as the wights reached the crude barricades guarding the path from the river to the camp. And as they started to hack and climb over the small barricade that the Wildlings had half-heartedly repaired on their side of the river, it seemed inevitable that they would break through to the camp and slaughter thousands. Perhaps tens of thousands._

 _Then the Night's Watch had entered the battle and the situation had changed._

 _The first thunderous volley from a hundred rifles ripped through the packed groups of wights, smashing limbs and tearing through bodies. Two more followed quickly after, focusing ever greater on the front of the enemy ranks and thinning them out, sending bodies falling down the slope and into each other, the seemingly unstoppable charge coming to a sudden tangled halt of limbs and bodies trampling each other and crushing each other.  
A few of the more skeletal looking bodies rotting with decay had shattered or fallen to pieces when the heavy metal balls had smashed into them - but terrifyingly, the more 'fresh' looking wights seemed to simply ignore limbs blown off or torsos ripped open entirely and inevitably, they started to pull themselves back together to once again begin advancing up the slope. Arrows started to fly from the top of the banks into the Wildlings, tiny fireballs that arced into the mass of bodies clawing their way forward but through luck or design, the soaked clothing most of the creatures wore simply smothered the flames without effect and they started to push back even harder._

 _Then a second volley of firepower smashed into them and sent them again sliding down the embankment, apparently finally irritating them enough to cause dozens to peel away from the main group even as more continued to pull themselves out of the river. Their masters no longer amused it seemed by their interference._

" _Fire by rank. Front rank ... fire!" Mormont roared and an explosion of gunpowder and hot lead smashed into the leading wave sending them reeling onto their backs and no few spinning off into the fast moving current to be washed downstream. Some stayed down, but most got back up - or even dragged themselves forward with their legs a ruin. One wight, a massive man who_ looked _perfectly normal except for the blue eyes seemed to be stomping right towards him indifferent to its half missing arm and Jon froze for a heartbeat as it closed in raising an axe.  
Then the years of practice with Robb and Theon at Winterfell's gunnery range took over and without conscious thought, he raised his weapon and sent a round straight through the huge man's face - _

_\- and the wight dropped like a puppet with its strings cut._

 _On pure automatic he was already working the bolt on the heavily modified whistler rifle; the weapon swinging around almost of its own accord after reloading to put a bullet through the face of a second wight getting a little too close for comfort. And it too was flung back dead as a bullet ripped through its head moments before the second rank volleyed at the Lord Commanders order, dropping some, staggering others..._

 _Then it hit him._

" _The heads! Aim for their heads!" Jon yelled, discarding his rifle for now and pulling his pistols, the twin snowstorm revolvers moving like an extension of his arm as he swung them around and made carefully aimed shots in between volleys from the Brothers, dropping a half dozen more between the two pistols before they ran dry. Another volley from brothers then rang out including near a hundred Viper shotguns in the third rank; their flayer rounds invented by Ramsey Bolton almost ideal for the task as heads exploded and bodies shattered into an orgy of gore and blood that sprayed into the river._

 _And then the Lord Commander was there._

" _First rank, second rank; SWORDS!" He bellowed as he stomped forward and the brothers in the front two ranks stood as one, slinging or even dropping their thunderarms to pull any number of heavy swords, axes and hatchets with a grim determination as others readied their shields. Kingsguard they may not be, but none could doubt the courage of these men as they set themselves to advance against creatures of legend and terror both._

" _Third Rank, hold and support. First and Second Ranks forward to the far bank! For the Watch!"_

 _And with a war cry that would have impressed a Dothraki khalasar, well over a hundred rangers charged down the riverbank as one, smashing aside the wights climbing towards them like a sudden avalanche. Weapons swung and smashed aside the enemy, sending more than one 'corpse' spinning off into the river downstream to be swept away in the rapids as the black brothers fanned out and pressed forward. Feet kicking up a spray of freezing water as they charged across the river screaming their defiance into the night.  
Yet the wights neither panicked nor hesitated in the face of the sudden attack, dozens reacting with chilling speed to simultaneously turn away from the massive heaving pile of corpses about to break like a great wave over the wildling defenders to intercept them. Swinging their weapons or fists even as yet more continued to pull themselves out of the river onto the ford. A non-stop string of orders from Mormont in the middle of the fighting had the rangers shifting and reforming all over the place, crushing and killing their way forward, but always as one group as they pressed onward with an almost suicidal courage towards the far bank, simply bashing anything in their way _out _of it._

 _It_ was _in fact by all logic suicidal; launching themselves out of their defensive positions where they had the advantage of their thunderarms to charge into close range with a massive pack of dead things that didn't care about how many losses they took. So much so that any smart commander would have immediately asked why in the Seven Hells they had done so.  
The wights didn't.  
Their first mistake._

 _Instead they all but welcomed the charge into close range, until they were pressing up on the opposite riverbank, more and more wights crawling out of the water to try and come in behind and cut them off - despite many falling to renewed fire from Jon and the others remaining on the far bank. Clearly preparing to trap the fool humans between two forces and crush them.  
Their second mistake._

 _If any of the dead saw a terrified Samwell Tarly in the middle of the pack, his hands filled not with sword or shield but a massive pack he struggled to haul across the river, none of them clearly thought it was of any importance, nor was the sight of Edd holding a flaming torch in one hand and a sword in the other. And certainly, when the wights saw the Brothers 'forced' to a halt, if the intelligence behind them noticed the Lord Commander gripping a thin tube like, but smaller than a thunderm the tip of which he put into Edd's torch setting it aflame - and the rear of which was connected by a flexible tube to the massive pack Tarly was manhandling forward ... again they did not think it worth any change in their tactics.  
Their final mistake._

 _Because then the Lord Commander forced his way to the front ranks, aimed the flaming tube-_

 _And he set them all on fire._

 _Where the fire arrows had simply fizzled out against the waterlogged clothes of the wights, the sticky fuel perfected by Ramsay Bolton ignited and sprayed out dozens of meters to coast the enemy like the breath of a dragon. It mattered not that they were covered in water; the flaming liquid flowed over them regardless and ignited them as if they were covered in chemicals; the fire spreading with a life of its own as Mormont systematically engulfed the mass of enemies in flame.  
In seconds as the fuel was expended … and what had been a terrifying wave of dead things about to pour over the wildlings final defenses to kill everything in the area had been turned into an even _more _terrifying mass of writhing bodies clumsily and uselessly battering at the flames consuming them. So quickly did they burn that the Night's Watch in the ford were forced to run for their lives as the flames seemed to grow without limits and threatened to take them too - Jon able to feel the heat even from the other bank!_

 _Cheers were starting to break out from the Free Folk on the far side of the river at their sudden salvation - even as the Watch reformed themselves to start dealing with the wights still trying to claw their way out the river and tear apart the living.  
And to Jon's amazement the cheering started to coalesce into a chant he doubted any brother had heard a Wildling _ever _say._

" _Lord Crow! Lord Crow! Lord Crow!"_

 _Tearing his attention away from the cheering, Jon noted that fewer and fewer wights were appearing from the river now, a good thing too as far too many of the brothers who had been holding them off while the main group charged in were either down or being helped or dragged back to their camp, the stewards and men from the third rank who had been providing what fire support they could hastening down to help as others unpacked medical supplies._

 _Jon started to move to help - but came up short as a growling in his ear dragged his attention away from the events in the ford to his Dire Wolf._

" _What is it boy?" Jon asked softly, frowning as he noted the white wolf was tensed up and staring downriver without the slightest concern for the battle winding down nearby. Without any more noise, Ghost started to trot away and Jon forced himself off his kneeling firing position to his feet, picking his rifle and pulling a fresh cartridge from his vest as he followed his Wolf upstream away from the camp. He kept a wary eye out for anything in the water below the steep bank as he reloaded his weapon, but saw nothing unusual in the bright light of the human bonfire playing out across the forested terrain.  
Slowly, he let his eyes sweep the far banks further and further away, blinking to try and let his eyes adjust to the orange glow over everything as he followed the wolfs gaze-_

 _And then he saw it._

 _Three, four hundred yards upstream from the ford, on the far bank of the river he could just barely make out_ something _moving in the thick mists rolling through the trees. Something that caused a wave of pure dread to ripple through him despite himself and the horrors he had already seen. Taking a knee, he raised the thunderarm to his shoulder and flicked the scope back into line to bring the area into view …  
And his arms froze as the magnified image came into horribly clear focus._

 _Human looking but somehow indistinct even in the scope, it stood with a mist that seemed to wrap and swirl around it like a living cloak. Its profile was jagged but symmetrical - very much like a man wearing heavy plate armor … and yet, it was barely visible when a man should have stood out like a sore thumb in the flickering orange light. Even as the fire danced and caused light to flicker around it, the silhouette seemed to vanish and reappear from blink to blink, vanishing into the massive dark trees behind it that seemed to swallow up its presence …_

 _Except for the eyes._

 _Wights eyes were blue. It was the greatest indicator of what they were even if the corpse they turned into a puppet otherwise looked perfectly healthy. But it was a pale blue, little more obvious than normal eye colors until you looked into their eyes at night where only a faint glow would give them away._

 _But these eyes … these eyes_ burned.

 _Even as the rest of the creature seemed to fade in and out of existence, the eyes remained perfectly clear to him. They burned like two stars in the darkest of nights; coldly indifferent and infinitely distant. The night itself seem to drop in temperature as he took in their terrible, flawless beauty before, unexpectedly, those two indifferent blue eyes seemed to move with a subtle shift in profile in the figure.  
For an infinitely long and short moment, Jon felt sure his heart had stopped as his conscious mind finally caught up with his unconscious mind. Telling him that what could only be a White Walker had turned its head and was now looking _directly _at him.  
Jon may have stayed there, frozen in place for all eternity under that ancient malevolent gaze … if not for a sudden snarl from next to him. The sudden noise from Ghost seemed to reach through him and light a spark in that part of his mind that always seemed to somehow connect to the Dire Wolf on a level he didn't understand.  
It was not words so much as feelings … but if he could _put _it into words…_

 _It was telling him that wolves were_ no-one's _prey.  
Reminding him that _they _were the_ hunters _.  
And telling him -demanding of him- to _be _that hunter._

 _Jon pulled the trigger._

 _Fire exploded from the barrel of his weapon as the firing pin ignited the primer charge and then burned into a controlled explosion, sending a metal dart whipping out from the barrel of his gun faster than sound itself. Perhaps the enemy understood what had just happened, perhaps it did not … but in either case it had no time to react as it was flung back violently in a sudden shower and scream of sparks from the force of the impact.  
Jon worked his bolt, loading one of his last ten rounds without hesitation as he snapped the weapon back into place, ready to follow up his shot … but there was nothing here._

 _Scanning through his scope, he only saw the mist, the trees and the river in the slowly (very slowly) dimming orange light._

 _More and more cheers were going up from the brothers behind him and he risked a look to see that the battle had apparently been won. No more wights came out of the river and the burning pile of corpses seemed to be being added to by both the Watch and the Free Folk, even as he heard someone bellowing for him to come back, no doubt the wounded needed help._

 _Safing his weapon, Jon rose and with a final hard look upstream, genuinely wondering as his exhaustion returned with the draining of adrenalin if he had simply imagined the whole thing.  
Confused and tired, Jon slung his weapon and started to trudge back to the camp after one final look, wondering if he would get _any _sleep tonight._

 _Further upstream as the massive fire faded and night slowly returned, a terrible figure cloaked in thick mists moved away from the battlefield. As it did, a gaping wound convulsing on its chest spat out a lump of twisted metal into a pale white hand. Coldly with an inhuman intelligence it studied the tiny frost covered projectile with something approaching faint curiosity as the wound closed and knitted itself back together, an ice like armor reforming above it once again until in moments there was no trace left at all of the damage._

 _Then, with a sound like the grinding of ice the hand around the projectile closed and it shattered into hundreds of tiny fragments that blew away in the winds as the fog thickened … and then dissipated._

 _Leaving not the slightest trace of the figure of legend as it did so._

"Total dead from the engagement were ten Brothers. With another fifteen wounded, ten of those seriously" Jon finished.

"To be clear Jon Snow - you are claiming you fired upon a White Walker?" The First Builder Othell Yarwyck immediately got in first before anyone else to ask that question.

"Of course he is, next he'll be claiming he shot the Night's King too" Ser Alliser didn't hesitate to rebut, turning his gaze on the brothers behind Jon. "I don't suppose any of the _rest_ of you can back up this claim?"

Jon saved them the trouble.

"None witnessed my actions Ser Alliser" he admitted without hesitation or emotion. "And I am quite sure I did not kill it either".

"Why are you so certain?" Bowen Marsh asked with a frown that couldn't hide his unease at the thought of a White Walker surviving one of the most powerful rifles they had in their armoury".

"Because when the next attack came a week later as we approached Craster's Keep that cost us a hundred brothers dead and wounded" Jon replied in a flat tone, "it was led by a White Walker who seemed to be _extremely_ eager to kill me before anyone else".


	30. LXVI, LXVII, LXVIII

**LXVI: Operation Virtuous Mission, Part 4**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, The Red Keep  
_  
 **Theon  
** \- - - - - -

The pounding on the door was getting worse. And the addition of another dresser wasn't likely to hold them back for long. No matter how thick the wood might be.

"Right, into the room farthest from the door," I ordered. "Get behind a stone wall and cover your ears."

"You're not going to bring down the entire Keep around us?" Oberyn asked with a slightly strained smile. I huffed.

"Of course not! Defeats the whole purpose... Just keeping you safe. Off with you."

The Prince of Dorne retreated, Bronn having already led the way. Ramsay was just finished cutting the fuse, and handed it to me. I fitted it to the dynamite stick I'd brought along, and slid it into the dresser. I produced a flare, and ignited it.

"Go, go, go!" I shouted. Ramsay followed me, running for the open door. We slid into a garishly appointed room with furs, tapestries, and paintings. I kneeled down behind the thick brick wall, bunching up with Oberyn and Bronn. We covered our ears.

"How long does that-?" Bronn asked, but the explosive answered for him. The walls shook, the world rumbled and my ears rang loudly from the bang. I was still wearing my goggles, so I peeked out the door.

"Ah..."

The others joined me, peeking over my shoulder. Oberyn coughed, the smoke from the fires now burning wafting right into our faces. There was a large hole in the wall, wreathed in flames that were quickly spreading over the flammable carpet and tapestries.

"You cut off our only route of escape, ya mad genius!" Bronn growled. "I'm not paid enough to burn to death!"

"Um... Oops?" I said with a shrug. "I... Oh, that's... That's not good," I muttered as the flames continued to spread. I stood up, and pulled my cloak up. "Well, that's not entirely cut off... If we run-"

Bricks began to fall from the ruined wall, and the fires grew taller. My lips thinned.

"Ah..."

"Rope!" Ramsay said. I nodded and pulled out a coil of rope. We ran to the nearby window, and looked down. There wasn't exactly a very inviting landing area below us: Spikes in a dry moat. "We need a landing platform-Bronn, Oberyn! Get the furniture!"

The Prince and the sellsword got the large, wooden bed up and shoved it towards the window. The smoke got thicker, so I ran over and slammed the door shut. I didn't really need to look too much more: I was very familiar with fires by now, didn't need more reminders.

Ramsay shuffled by and grabbed a small table, rushing back to Bronn and Oberyn who were arguing over how to get the bed out.

"We can't just throw it out a piece at a time! It won't be stable!" Bronn protested.

"I can handle that!" Oberyn said.

"I'm not judging ya, milord, but I'm not trusting yer arse holdin' a pole to save us!" Bronn growled.

"Neither was I," Oberyn agreed. "But the window's too small!"

"We could blow it bigger," Ramsay said.

"More explosions will _not help!"_ Oberyn shouted, losing his cool.

I sighed and looked at the nearby bookcase. I supposed it would fit through the window and might provide more of a cushion... If it didn't shatter on impact. Which, to be honest, it probably would.

 _This is not how I thought I'd be going out,_ I thought to myself. _Maybe the ROB had a sicker sense of humor than I thought._ _Done in by my own toys...  
_  
Some genius I was... No! No. I couldn't let that go on. I cared too much, there was too much at stake... I growled and shoved my sword behind the bookshelf, and pulled back with all my strength.

 _Give me... A lever... Big enough... And I will move the world!_ I thought defiantly, even as I coughed. I pulled, and pulled again. Something creaked, something _gave...  
_  
The bookcase swung out, and I fell back.

"Oof!" I grunted and looked up, slowly processing the obvious: That instead of a wall behind the bookcase, there was a door. A door with steps leading down.

 _Secret door... SECRET DOOR!  
_  
"LADS! COME ON!" I shouted, banging my sword on the door. My three companions turned, and processed the obvious a lot faster than I did. I turned and ignited another flare: Yes, it had stairs going down! I headed down, hearing my allies follow. The staircase spiraled down, each step almost treacherously steep. I stumbled a few times, catching myself on the wall. Still it wound down, deeper into the Keep. So deep I was beginning to worry if it even had an exit. If the rest of my short life would be spent in the darkness, trapped with three other men, in a burning castle.

No glory. No ovations. Just death.

Yet the ROB, or perhaps God Himself, was looking out for us. Because we did reach a door, shut by ancient, rusty ironwork. I handed the torch over to Ramsay, who held it above dutifully. I pulled out some tools, and examined it.

"Right, job for thermite again," I said. "Everybody back up."

I stuck the packet of thermite to the lock assembly. I took the flare, and ignited the package. I turned away, and was pleased that Bronn and Oberyn were covering their eyes already. They had learned! I felt rather proud.

The lock came apart, and a shove with my shoulder budged the door a bit. Bronn, Oberyn and Ramsay joined in, and together we shoved the door open.

"Ugh!"

We stumbled out into a corridor-The first floor. Servants were running in a panic, carrying whatever they could. Bronn shoved us along, and we joined the exodus. We got out over the drawbridge, and spilled into the courtyard. Civilians were running, streaming out the main gate. Guards were escaping too, not bothering to help guide the servants out. It was a route, a panicked retreat. Nobody cared about four men in ruffled Goldcloaks, covered in soot.

Even in the midst of this chaos though... I was thinking. Thinking something was wrong.

Aside from the obvious... And the orange light of the fires turning green confirmed this fear. I took shelter by a fountain, and looked back: Maegor's Keep was burning green, wildfyre. My eyes widened, as Ramsay grabbed my shoulder.

"Theon! Theon, we need to run!" Ramsay cried.

"Bronn! Bronn!" I shouted, catching the sellsword by the shoulder, "how much wildfire did you guys have left?"

"I... I don't know, a few storehouses! Them moving it to the Keep is new," Bronn said. He looked up. "They couldn't have known we were coming, could they?"

"No," I said. "But why pack wildfyre in the Keep unless..." My eyes widened. "She _wouldn't."  
_  
Bronn looked at me, and sighed. "She would... Or King Cunt would," he confirmed.

"A surprise for King Robb," Ramsay concluded. "If we can't have King's Landing-"

"No one can," I surmised. I grimaced as the green flames got higher and higher. "Shit... Shit..."

"We've got to get out of the city, right now," Oberyn said. "We can't stop this. We need to get everyone out-"

"Oberyn! You take charge of that," I ordered. "Take care of evacuation if you can... You too Bronn!"

"And you're going to be doing what?" Bronn asked sarcastically. I smiled.

"Hopefully...? Saving the city."

\- - - - - -

I don't think I ran so hard in my life. Not even from the Mountain who Rides. But Ramsay and myself got up to the top of the gatehouse in record time, and I lit off a yellow flare. The green flames were spreading faster, Maegor's Keep beginning to look like a demonic tower of doom.

"Ramsay, are you all right? What happened?" Meera asked, appearing out of nowhere in concern. I cleared my throat. She looked at me with a smile.

"Lord Theon, how are you?" She asked.

"Fine. Need your bombs," I said. Meera rummaged in her pack, and handed over four packages of dynamite. Ramsay began to cut the fuse, but I shook my head.

"No time," I said. I pulled out my blast capsules, and used the fuses to tie them onto the packages. "Right... Now comes the insanely dangerous part."

"Running back to the Keep?" Ramsay guessed. I fixed him with a look, and he shrugged. "Well, you're obviously hoping to collapse the Keep to put out most of the flames."

"Yes," I said. "And we need to put the bombs at the base or it won't work. So! We run to the Keep-"

"Across the courtyard? You'll never make it!" Meera disagreed. She hummed, and looked along the battlements. "Follow me!" She set off like a deer in the night. Ramsay and I ran after her, as ashes began to rain down upon the city. It was like gray snow, beautiful but probably deadly. I pulled up my scarf, breathing through the fibers.

The trip wasn't quite as long as I thought. The architecture of the Red Keep was designed to impress more than anything else, and so the sheer sense of scale of a person was thrown off by it. But I saw Meera's plan immediately: Take us to the battlements flanking the burning Keep.

By now, the flames had reached the top windows of the giant structure. Green sparks began to rain, in the direction of the courtyard thanks to the wind. That, however, might last no time at all. We looked down at the moat surrounding it, far below us.

"We don't have any schematics," Ramsay said. "How do we know where the structural weakpoints are?"

"We'll have to hope the wildfire has weakened it enough," I decided.

"No way of knowing that," Meera pointed out. "How much, or where it's been weakened!"

"Well, since the architects are all long dead, we'll just have to guess," I said sarcastically. "Look, the walls around it should contain it: But I want to make absolutely sure!"

"And we might want to do it before the bombs we left on the drawbridge go off," Ramsay pointed out. I groaned.

"Yes, that..."

It took a bit longer than I would have liked, but we managed to combine our grappling hooks and ropes to lower one of the bombs to the drymoat below. We moved around the wall, lowering another package the same way. Another corner, we did the same thing. The last one though was directly in the breeze, sending the green sparks and flames our way.

Ramsay tried to go forth... And immediately pulled back, yelping as a green spark hit his shoulder. Meera yanked off her cloak and smothered him with it, driving him to the floor. I grimaced as I looked down, and thought. I didn't have enough time, this plan was desperate and frankly, stupid as shit.

Yet there were half a million people out there, counting on me whether they knew it or not.

"Fuck it," I muttered. "Meera! Let's go! I'll get Ramsay!"

We hobbled away, myself supporting the whimpering Ramsay. I didn't blame him: That burn looked horrific. We got back around the battlements to the seaside. I attached the hook to the battlements, and threw the rope down. I looked over at Meera.

"Get him down," I said. "Go first!"

"But... But Theon-!" Meera gasped. I shook my head, and yanked her sniper rifle back.

"That's an order! It's our best chance: GO!"

Meera turned to the rope, and slid down it like a green clad sprite.

"Theon, I can't-" He tried, but I shoved him over the edge. He yelped and grabbed onto the rope. I took deep breaths, tried not to think about the jagged rocks below. I turned around, seeing the burning holdfast before-

 _KABOOM! KABOOM! KABOOM! KABOOM!  
_  
-it knocked me over the battlements and sent me into freefall. I didn't even get to scream before I felt a strong hand grab my ankle. We swung back and forth, Meera screeching obscenities. The blood ran to my head, as I scrambled to grab onto the rope. Meera gaped up at me, still screaming.

"Oh shit...Oh shit... Oh shit..." I muttered.

"Theon...! Climb up... Please...!" Ramsay tried.

I tolerated the vertigo and swung myself upright. I climbed up, trying not to grasp Ramsay's injured shoulder too hard. I peeked up over the battlements.

Maegor's Holdfast was falling apart- _Had_ fallen apart. I only caught the last moments before it folded in like a house of cards. Great plumes of smoke and dust erupted, with many, _many_ orange flames. Orange, not green.

"Holy... Shit..." I muttered. "It worked...!"

"For the moment," Ramsay shouted. "So can you kindly GET THE FUCK OFF MY SHOULDER?!"

"Sorry, sorry!"

\- - - - - -

In the midst of the chaos, crowds had formed outside the walls of the Red Keep. Oberyn was at work, shouting orders to many guards to get fire brigades rolling. Thanks to the Holdfast's collapse, the green embers were no longer spreading outside to the city. The fires were minimal, but containable.

Bronn, I didn't know where he'd gotten to. He knew how to take care of himself though: I wasn't too worried.

Maybe he was reconsidering employment with us. I knew I'd be.

So Meera and I got Ramsay off the main plaza to the side streets. We'd memorized the route to the tavern. It didn't take too long to get there, all things considered: The people were more concerned with what was going on in the smoldering Keep than with three stragglers.

The tavern was packed full of worried men and women, beer being sold. I shoved my way through several of them, and Meera and I dragged Ramsay up. I kicked the door in, and shut it behind us as Meera laid Ramsay onto the bed. She pulled out the medkit, and began to cut away the burnt cloth. I pulled out painkillers, and helped Ramsay swallow them as I got a blanket around him for shock. I sighed and rubbed my face. I walked into the small side room of the tavern, seeking a water bowl. I was smelling of smoke, covered in soot, exhausted, mildly burnt in a few places...

"Well... I hope Oberyn and Bronn take their time," I sighed. "I want to put off explaining to Robb how big a clusterfuck this was as long as possible. No Sansa, no Arya..."

"Actually," said a kindly voice, "that's not _entirely_ accurate."

I spun around, revolver out and pointed at the voice's owner. A portly, bald man in purple clothing, wearing a broad smile.

And beside him, sleeping on a mat with a darker skinned woman holding her protectively...

"Arya?!" I gasped. The portly man smiled and nodded.

"Indeed, Lord 'Underhill'... Or should I say, Theon Greyjoy?"

I looked back at the portly man. It had been years since I'd seen the memories of the show... Or whatever had happened to me... But there was no way I could confuse this man for anyone else.

"Lord Varys," I said. The Spider's eyebrows rose.

"I seems Prince Oberyn has the situation well in hand, after your considerable efforts... So perhaps we might speak until they return?"

"... I could think of worse ways to pass the time," I admitted, my gun still on him. "Not many, but..."

 **LXVII: A Rose of The North**

 _AC 300, The Neck, The North_

 **Margaery  
** \- - - - -

The carriage was comfortable, if a bit plain. The seats were warm with firm cushions: And springs underneath them softened things further. The wheels had larger springs and "shock absorbers", which made the ride far more pleasant than anything else she'd ridden that had wheels. The glass windows were large, but with proper curtains on strange rollers to block out the light or grant the passengers privacy.

When it came to the decor, however, Margaery found the aesthetics of the North to be a bit lacking. The wood paneling was warm and well machined, of course, but it was so plain compared to what she was used to. The fabric was a mix of grays, greens and blues. None of it wrong, none of it badly made, and yet...

"It seems to... Lack something," she murmured, brushing her fingers over the panel. A cup of tea was offered, and she breathed in the scent. She took the cup and smiled gratefully to her handmaiden: Elinor Tyrell, her distant cousin. She sipped it, enjoying the taste.

"I have to agree," Elinor said. "I mean, it's a marvelous carriage, so comfortable... But it's so... _Plain."  
_  
"Might be just as well," Brienne spoke, sitting across from them. Unlike Margaery and Elinor, Brienne remained in her armor. A revolver at her side, and a sword at the other. "Makes it harder to tell which carriage is which."

"Do you really think we'd be in danger this far north?" Elinor asked. "The thunder has chased everyone away."

"That's Brienne's prerogative," Margaery said with a gentle smile, and an equally gentle admonishment at Elinor. "She _is_ my bodyguard."

"I suppose," Elinor admitted. She hadn't been at the Steel Wedding. She hadn't felt a gun in her hands, seen the life vanish from the eyes of the man trying to kill her husband.

A husband who even now was down South, without her. Fighting this war, out in front. The same courage that pushed him to leap over tables to fight assassins with guns at point blank range was pushing him now...

She sucked in breath through her nostrils. She was the Queen now. Of the North and the Trident... Maybe all of Westeros, soon. This trip would be to familiarize herself with her husband's home. Her duties as the Queen... Then back south, once again...

Margaery shook her head, and pushed the curtains aside. The view was a bit less dreary this time: The forests and streams of the Neck were quite pretty, if harsher than she was used to. The outriders, Dragoons and cavalry, were patrolling out some distance from the convoy. Keeping up with them, riding all day and all night.

It hadn't changed much in the whole week they'd been travelling, save in the different riders. When they stopped, Margaery spoke to many of them. She believed the one in red was one of the Manderly Knights, a Lieutenant Shanny Coke. He got married just before the war, and was looking forward to seeing his wife again after two years.

He lived in Cerwyn, working as a steam stoker before he became a cavalry officer. Shoveling coal into hot furnaces: His descriptions sounded like any number of the Seven Hells. Now, as he rode with wing-like attachments, she couldn't help but imagine him dragging himself out of the Hells to fly.

It was like something out of a fairy tale.

Margaery leaned back, closing her eyes to rest.

"So, what's at this Moat Cailin, anyway?" Elinor asked. "The Northmen said something about an Iron Serpent?"

"Some kind of machine that moves people in large numbers," Brienne said. "Apparently they used it to move troops down here so quickly."

"Ugh! It will probably be absolutely dreadful," Elinor grunted, lifting her nose. "Noisy and smelly like everything else they've made..."

"Now now Elinor, have an open mind," Margaery spoke gently. "Many of the surprises of the North have been good ones."

 _Like Robb,_ she thought, keeping a lascivious smile off her face. Yet _another_ reason she hoped he returned soon. And in one piece.

"There it is!" Elinor cried. "Ugh... What a ruin!"

Margaery opened her eyes, and peeked out the window. Their convoy had crested a ridge, and in the valley below a large, ruined castle stood wreathed in smoke and steam. Houses and buildings surrounded it, glass windows shining in the sunlight. The red rooftops were a pleasant change of pace though: Standing out against the vast green plains.

"It's not too bad," Margaery observed. "The town looks thriving!"

"Yeah, for a village around a ruin," Elinor grumbled.

It took another hour or so, according to the pocket watch she'd been gifted by her goodmother; then they began to pass men laying steel bars onto wooden planks, just ahead of some kind of iron wheeled monstrosity. Behind it were carriages: Carrying more wooden planks and more bars.

"What's going on there? What are they making?" Elinor wondered.

"We'll find out when we get into town, I hope," Margaery said.

\- - - - -

They pulled into the square of Moat Cailin: Built out of bricks from the ruined castle into a large, circular area. Hundreds were gathered, as a band played. She could see children playing and laughing, following the carriages as they rode in. Brienne emerged first, to hundreds of people who cheered. Margaery followed, and smiled beautifully-As expected, to several photographers flashing their devices at her. Elinor followed, as Catelyn joined them with her own guards. She smiled at her good-daughter, and took the lead to a man in a tall hat and black coat. He bowed to Catelyn, and she took his hands with a pleased beam.

"Lord-Mayor Orlen Spenler: Thank you for your kind welcome!"

"How often do I get to welcome our new Queen?" The man laughed, his bushy mustache ruffling a bit like Margaery's father would. He kneeled to Margaery next, and his people followed suit. "Your Grace... Welcome to Moat Cailin!" He looked up at her. "I am sorry your stay must be so short."

So many people kneeling to her... She now understood in this small way, the heady influence of power. She did not forget her duty though.

"As am I," Margaery said with a nod and a winning smile. "But the demands of state wait for no one. Still! Before I see the Iron Serpent... Can you guide me through your city? I would like to preserve it in my mind for the long journey ahead."

That won the lord-mayor's confidence almost instantly, and he invited himself along on the carriage. Brienne stayed close to Margaery, ever watchful, as they resumed their journey with fresh horses through the town.

Spenler happily pointed out many things that Margaery was sure could be interesting: If not explained by the mayor. While a jovial, kind man, he droned on and on about industry, factories, something called the telegraph...

It was thankfully short though, as they reached what he called "The Train Station."

And there it was. A great green beast, bronzed and chrome and steel. Shaped like a bullet, resting on large wheels with a great smokestack on the front. Behind it, a carriage filled with black rocks-Coal, she guessed. Behind it, more carriages: Resembling the one she rode here, but bigger and sleeker.

It was breathtaking... A true _Iron Serpent_.

She got to admire it a bit more when she stepped out onto the platform. Graciously thanking the townspeople for their generosity, meeting the crew of the "train" and learning their names, posing for several more pictures: She even posed with the gun she'd used to kill the assassin, which she was greatly admired for. She took flowers from the children, and gave them treats of candies in return. And finally, a piercing whistle rang out over the station. Margaery started and looked up: It had come from the "train".

"All aboard!" A man in green yelled, waving towards her and her party.

Margaery boarded it, only after Brienne went aboard first. She entered, and looked around. The carriage was large, and had soft rugs. Furniture, like a small sitting room. Margaery sucked in a deep breath, and ran her hand over the table.

"Letter for you, Your Grace," the man in green said. He held out an envelope, and Margaery took it with a smile.

"Thank you..." She opened it as the man left, and she sat down in a chair. Elinor was gushing about it to Catelyn, who allowed an indulgent smile at the younger girl's enthusiasm. Maester Luwin too came aboard, looking around in amazement.

"Who is it from, Your Grace?" Brienne asked politely. Margaery chuckled, and shook her head.

"Robb... He asks if this surprise is more to my liking."

"And is it?" Elinor asked, pausing from her constant questions. Margaery just smiled, and turned to look out the window. She waved and smiled again out at the crowd, as the train began to slowly move. The sea of faces waving and smiling back, soon left behind.

Perhaps the fine detailing was overrated, Margaery decided, as the train soon passed by the Fever river, glistening in the sun, as they coursed across the land into the true, proper North.

 **LXVIII: Operation Virtuous Mission, Part 5**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, The Crownlands  
_  
 **Theon Greyjoy  
** \- - - - - -

Varys. The Spider. The Master of Whispers. The Eunuch who probably had fifteen plans before breakfast on how to deal with his enemies, and never smiled like this unless he knew he had an equal hand to yours.

Pity I sucked at poker. Well, I _might_ have. Again, ten years of overlapping memories can give you a strange view of your existence.

An existence that might hang in the balance, given the Spider was standing here without a care in the world evident.

"Parley," he spoke.

I blinked a few times. "I... What?"

"Parley. I believe it is a term denoted to ask for peaceful resolution of a conflict, is it not?" Varys asked, raising an eyebrow. "It isn't dissimilar to other words in Old Valerian. May words of which you know... The roots of, anyway."

I slowly nodded. "Right... Of course... Sorry, you might not be aware but I did just get done saving King's Landing. Bit winded."

"Naturally," Varys said, his smile unchanging at my sarcasm.

A bolt action rifle clicked ready to my left. I wasn't surprised to see Meera standing there, rifle at the ready. Nor was I surprised I'd missed her sneaking up.

"What the hell...?"

"Varys, meet Lady Meera Reed. Meera, meet Varys," I deadpanned. "He stopped in for a visit."

"With a gift to ensure peaceful cooperation," Varys said pleasantly, gesturing to the still sleeping Shae and Arya. Meera's jaw dropped.

"How did you-?!"

"I doubt that would be very interesting to a woman of your skills," Varys said sagely. "That said... I would appreciate speaking with your master alone?"

Meera glanced at me. I very slowly nodded.

"Have you got the room all picked out?" I asked blithely. Varys smiled.

"I have... I imagine it would be distracting, having others around," he said. "You may, of course, keep your gun on me at all times." He slowly walked toward me, pulling his hands from his sleeves to show he was unarmed. "Given the situation, I completely understand."

"... Room's in this tavern, I take it?" I asked flatly. Varys nodded, his smile changing very slightly.

"Quite."

"Meera? Keep an eye on Ramsay, Shae and Arya," I said calmly. Meera worried her lower lip, but managed a nod.

"Yes Theon... And-"

"Relax," I said. "If he wanted me dead, he wouldn't be here himself."

Meera looked like she very much doubted that. Varys continued to smile, but he put his hands in his sleeves again. I wasn't sure about the significance of that action. Maybe he thought I trusted him a little more? I didn't know.

"Take care of them," I said, a bit more firmly. The Crannogwoman frowned, but nodded. She moved past Varys, keeping her gun on him in the tight space. She kneeled down, checking the pulses of the two young women.

"They're alive... Drugged, I think," she said. Varys nodded.

"Mild sleeping potion. It allowed them to be smuggled out of the castle," Varys said calmly. I very slowly nodded, and gestured with my head towards the door.

"Lead on," I said flatly. Varys continued to smile, moving softly out the door into the main room. I followed, keeping my gun on him at all times and scanning around. Ramsay had been dosed with morphine, given his blank expression. I didn't imagine he'd be very happy if he could comprehend what was going on.

"Lord Bolton," Varys greeted politely, opening the door and walking out. Ramsay waved back.

"Theeeon... That lady...? She's really, really fat..."

"Yes, she is," I said. "Rest up buddy. You'll be flaying again in no time."

I checked outside the door quickly: Just Varys out there. He resumed walking, and I followed at a distance. It wasn't a long trek: Just to the door four down from ours. I shut the door behind me securely, and heard Meera lock it. I moved on, gun still on Varys, the loud noise of the crowd below drowning anything else out.

He gestured to the door. I reached out, and slowly opened it. I kept my gun on the eunuch, and scanned the room. Just a bed, a table, two chairs... And a chess set on the table. Nobody else I could see. It didn't mean there _weren't_ people there, of course.

There were dozens of ways Varys could kill me, even while I was here. And in our weakened state, not much Meera or Ramsay could do to prevent it. All I had on me was a pack of thermite, one last flare, my gun, and a few odds and ends that inevitably ended up in my pockets.

Logically though... Handing over Arya just to kill us all off didn't make much sense. Too risky a gamble. Or it should have been...

"After you," I stated flatly. "Sit on the table, hands where I can see them."

"Of course," He said. Varys walked in, and slowly sat at the table with his back to me. He placed his hands on the table, serenely. I checked around one more time, before closing the door behind me. I slowly paced out the room, examining it from every angle. My gun ever on Varys, who watched me in some bemusement.

"I could assure you that I have no intention of harming you or your allies, Lord Greyjoy," Varys spoke, "but you don't seem to trust me."

"There aren't many people I do," I admitted. Varys nodded.

"Yet here you are. And here I am, without a bullet in my head."

"For the moment, yes," I agreed. Varys chuckled a bit.

"Would it not be safe to agree that neither of us would gain anything from killing the other?" He asked.

I shrugged. "Depends on the situation," I said. "Or weather, in your case."

"To remain sought after despite changes in the situation is simple job security. Something we have both aspired to, I believe," Varys responded, not skipping a beat.

"Yes, but why someone wants that job is just as important," I retorted, feeling a little agitated. Okay, _very_ agitated.

"For the good of the realm, of course," Varys said, in surprising sincerity. "Isn't that your goal as well, Lord Greyjoy?"

"... Yes," I admitted. "That can be highly subjective though."

"True," Varys said with a nod. "Yet between the two of us, your motives can seem more... Shall we say... Suspect?"

"Oh?" I asked. "How do you mean?"

Maybe Bronn would get back here to find us. Maybe Oberyn. Maybe someone else, a Northern loyalist. They were in King's Landing, I knew this...

Varys considered the chess board before him. "If I am to play this game... You must give me something to work with, my Lord."

"You're the one who said my motives were suspect," I responded. Varys smiled back.

"Is there anyone's who aren't?" He asked.

"... What do you want?" I asked. Varys reached out and took hold of a pawn: He was on the white side of the board, after all. He moved it out, two spaces, before looking back at me.

"As I said... To play the game," Varys spoke. He gestured to the other chair. "I do believe you can play with one hand?"

I slowly pulled the chair out, and equally slowly sat down: Positioning myself to ensure a good view of Varys, the chessboard, and the door. There was a window, bolted shut, that I would have to examine regularly. Great, it was like driver's ed all over again.

I considered the board. Varys had started solidly enough: King's pawn to e4 . I matched him with my own pawn, to e5. He moved his right bishop's pawn to f4, completing the King's Gambit opening.

He continued playing defensively, focusing on control of the center. I stacked him up with my pawns and got my more powerful pieces out early, supporting them across the board. He captured a few, I captured a few. Overall though, it was tightly contested: Neither of us were giving up enough power or space to allow for an easy checkmate.

We'd hit forty moves before he spoke again.

"Fascinating game. More considered in many ways than Cyvasse. The object is to capture, not destroy."

"What's the use of wanton destruction?" I asked, moving my knight to check him. "Check."

He moved his queen to block.

"What is the point indeed, my Lord," Varys agreed. "Calculated destruction... Measured destruction... Far less complicated in the long run."

He put a knight out as bait, trying to get me to sacrifice my queen. I responded by moving my queen to directly threaten his knight. He was forced to withdraw, briefly.

"Of course, even when being careful, such destruction occurs. Take this war, for example," Varys spoke, sacrificing a pawn to break up the chain of pawns I'd established in the center. I supported them with a rook, blunting his momentum. "The destruction is focused, and yet immense. On all fronts. The Army of the North is fighting in a way never before seen, with technology never before seen. Were it simply a matter of new weapons, well... The victories would be expected, but not overwhelming. Not as though the doctrine behind them was refined through experience... Someone's experience, anyway."

"Some things hold true no matter what changes about war," I responded, managing to get a knight behind his lines to take a rook.

"This is also true, my lord. And there is no doubt such wisdom can be found in all your works," Varys said with a nod. "Yet the fact remains... The wisdom is not the kind one simply obtains from so short a life."

"So... What?" I asked, responding to his bishop's attack on my pawns with a supported rook. "What do you think I am then?"

"At the moment? A competent chess player," Varys said. "The game is yours, after all, but easily picked up. If one knows how to analyze it."

"You're very good yourself," I responded. "Giving nothing away without it being hard fought."

Varys smiled again. "Quite," he agreed, "you play in much the same way."

I wasn't sure but it almost felt like a compliment. Which could be just as bad as an insult from the Spider.

"Of course, a game like this, one has to know what their ending is before they begin," Varys said. "There are, no doubt, guides to achieve that outcome."

"Yes, but plans like that don't survive contact with the actual gameplay," I responded, putting him in check again. "Check."

"Hmm..." Varys considered. "... I could extend the game out to six more moves, perhaps seven... But in the end, it will be your victory."

I nodded slowly. "Sounds about right," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. Varys placed a finger on his King, and tipped it over. It fell to the board with a quiet, wooden clack. He looked back up at me, hands now resting on the table.

"Lord Bronn and Lord Oberyn are coordinating with the City Guard to work out recovery, and will not risk coming here directly while in the spotlight," Varys spoke. "The news of the Red Keep's fire will no doubt have reached the King's army a few miles southwest from here by now. And the _Seawolf_ would have to land a considerable force to fight their way through to you for support, owing to the chaos in the Bay from the fire."

I was silent. "... And you?"

"I have a number of men around," Varys spoke. "Simple insurance against anything going wrong."

"And what would your definition of that be, Lord Varys?" I asked dryly.

"Concluding our pleasant conversation with anyone being hurt, killed or captured, of course," Varys said. "I did mean what I said about that."

"Explain your reasoning to me, like I was a simpleton," I replied flatly. "I might have become a bit addled from all the smoke I had to breath in today."

Varys sighed, his smile a bit... Annoyed. It made me feel good, to score that. Even when winning a chess game, he seemed to have the upper hand.

"The Lannisters have fled or surrendered. The North has gained strong allies. The Baratheons have been rendered impotent. The one man with the strongest claim to the Iron Throne, by simple mathematics, is someone who does not wish to sit atop it. The man who gave him that ability, to crush the greatest armies of Westeros with ease using technology no one could have dreamed of, is sitting across from me. He has had several opportunities to kill me, and has a clever enough mind he probably has devised several ways of doing it that give him and his friends a better than thirty percent chance of survival."

"That high, huh?" I asked dryly. "Better than my usual plans."

"He has begun a revolution that could have easily been used to crush all of Westeros, and achieved things that could have gotten him the hand of Sansa Stark to secure his place as King in the North," Varys continued. "His Ironborn upbringing would certainly suggest such a desire for conquest... Yet he remains an adviser. He has no lands of his own. He pushed for the smallfolk to be educated, medicine to be improved, society to be uplifted as a whole. He is wealthy, yet does not flaunt it. He is all about his work, to the point it took the Princess of Dorne and his assistant to push him to lose his virginity."

I tried hard not to blush, but damnit...! His intel was good, _very_ good.

"Yet at the same time," Varys said, "his frantic work since he was a child to push the North into this suggests several possibilities. Either he was blessed by the gods with divine revelation for some... As yet unknown purpose... Or he is a fraud, smart enough to pass off a secret source of learning as his own ideas."

"I have pointed out a lot of my sources as being Ancient Valyrians," I pointed out. Varys' smile became a bit sweeter.

"Which would fool many. Has fooled many. Has not fooled everyone," he said. "You are a capable storyteller, Lord Theon. I grant you that. This, however, does not add up. Now, I have the chance to simply ask you. You have the chance to answer."

"And if I answer incorrectly?" I asked.

"A man of your nature is cynical enough to realize it would be better to keep you alive to get the true answer," Varys replied. "And knows he will require me to secure the kingdom after all this. King Robb is not the kind of man to simply leave ruins in his wake: He has Lord Ned's sense of honor."

"Annoying, that," I muttered. I shook my head. I worried my lower lip, and considered the board game.

I wasn't keen to just blurt out... You know... The _actual_ truth. It'd be too outlandish for anyone to believe, and I didn't even _know_ if it was the truth.

"... Let us begin with a hypothetical scenario," I began. "The brain is an organ for processing information. It does this, and far more, through electrochemical reactions. Ones I have measured, ones I have defined chemically. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Varys said. I took hold of the knight, turning it in my hands a bit nervously.

"These electrochemical reactions can be monitored, like any electrical current," I continued, "and that information can be recorded by pen and paper. Perhaps, in the future, such information could be _directly_ recorded on some kind of medium, like a record player."

Varys nodded.

"Now... Accounting for all that, is it therefore possible to learn how to send that information back into a brain it was recorded from?" I asked. "Perhaps in a way for the brain to interpret?"

"I suppose, assuming the first assumption correct, all this could be achieved," Varys said. "Such a machine is well beyond anyone's capabilities, my Lord... Even, perhaps, yours."

"It is," I said with a nod. "I could work for centuries and still not get it... But! What if a civilization were that advanced? What if it recorded the mind, memories and knowledge of an individual or multiple individuals in this way? In a machine that could not just _record_ and store this information, but also transmit it to another mind?"

Varys arched an elegant eyebrow. "Such a machine seems almost miraculous, my Lord. Almost like _magic_."

"Only to people who didn't understand it," I said earnestly. "For years, people said black powder was some kind of magic, no matter how many times I tried to disabuse them of that notion. When you understand the science behind it, _why_ things do the things they do, it's something _anyone_ can pull off." I leaned back in my chair, just a bit. "Magic is beseeching something else to fix the stakes for you. _Science_ is understanding the world and putting in the effort to do the work yourself."

"Hypothetically then, such a machine may have been crafted by a civilization far more ancient than any known to us," Varys said with a slow nod, "and hypothetically... You may have been exposed to it as a child?"

"Yes... Hypothetically," I said with a shrug.

Varys considered it. "Such a... _Hypothesis_ would explain a great many things... Yet the frantic motivation eludes me."

"Well," I began, "if _something_ had destroyed a civilization so powerful... Would it not be in your best interests to ensure it didn't happen to your own? If you had the power to do so?"

Varys was silent, considering. He observed me carefully.

"Of course," I said, "this is pure speculation. Just a theory that could fit the facts as they exist."

"Of course, my Lord," Varys said with a nod. "And it does rather distract from the current situation, as... _Fascinating_ as such speculations are."

"Bottom line though," I said, "Joffrey Waters is going down. King's Landing is in ruins, and the Seven Kingdoms as we know it are going to change forever. So... Once again... What do you want?"

"Merely the chance to serve the realm as it needs to be," Varys replied. "And I can be a great deal of aid in that regard, My Lord. And on a personal note... I do believe I can aid you in recovering Princess Sansa as I did in giving you Princess Arya." He folded his hands in front of him. "Since at the moment, you have very few options."

I sighed. "... Should I just consider this a job interview then?"

"If you like," Varys said with another strange smile.

"... Then welcome aboard," I managed, extending my hand to his. He took it, shaking mine.

"A pleasure to be here," Varys replied, almost happily.

I managed a smile back... While hoping beyond hope that this would not be a mistake.


	31. More chapters!

**LXIX: The Wolf in the Night, Part 2**

 _AC 300, The Crownlands  
_  
 **Robb  
** \- - - - - - -

Robb had grown up on tales of the First Men, how they could feel the forest and the earth through their blood. How the wind spoke through the rustling of the trees and the howls against rock and stone. In time, he'd learned that all of it had something to it in real practice: To scent prey on the wind, to read the broken branches and prints in mud. His siblings had, in their own ways, loved the woods. Sansa loved to collect the flowers that bloomed and to sing with the birds in the branches, Bran and Arya loved to chase after squirrels and deer, Jon moved through them like a beast of the wood himself, and even Theon could be found wandering it on his rare breaks, pointing out the names of the plants and animals.

To Robb though, the woods were as much home as Winterfell. As comforting as a blanket from his mother, or a hug from his wife.

"Your Grace?" A woman called, and Robb couldn't help his smile. Through his glasses, he spied the source: Mya Stone, leading a few Vale and North men on the road through this wood. She was looking around, occasionally stopping to scan with her binoculars.

When she got right up to the tree he was hiding by, she sighed and brushed off her armor. She was clearly frustrated: It was pleasing in a wolf way to Robb. He pulled out a rock and tossed it over their heads, hitting a rock. The Valemen all spun on their heels, guns raised and pointed at the sound. The Northmen split up, taking defensive positions around a shocked looking Mya. Robb nodded approvingly, before he pulled out a clicker. He clicked it once, and one of his soldiers pulled a similar device and clicked it back twice. Everyone relaxed, especially Mya, as Robb came into view.

"Not bad, men, and lady," he complimented, "but your response time needs a bit of work."

"Aye, your Grace," the soldiers all replied, saluting in respect.

Mya scowled. "Your Grace... With all due respect, you shouldn't be trampling around like that all alone! You could have been shot!"

Dacey Mormont and a few other Crannogmen emerged from various hiding places around the road. The Vale men were looking uncomfortable, but the Northmen just shrugged in their gray coats.

"I wasn't," he said.

"You could have!" She protested.

"Don't bother, Lady Mya," Dacey said, sounding far too exasperated for Robb's liking, "the King's heard all this before. Along with 'don't run off, you're a king, not a common soldier.' You'll get the same answer."

"Men and women do not follow a king unwilling to lead," Robb stated, smirking a bit. Dacey sighed.

"Yes your grace..."

"What brings you out here then, Lady Mya?" Robb asked, nodding to his troops as they filtered out into the trees. "Changing the guard on a picket line doesn't seem the type of work for you."

"Neither does this seem the kind of work for you, Your Grace," Mya replied. She then flushed, and looked aside. "My apologies-"

"No, it's all right," Robb said, holding a hand up. "I'm not about to punish people for pointing out the obvious."

Robb turned to the Crannogmen, and made gestures. Most of them melted away into the trees, leaving only a few (and Dacey) still visible. Mya watched, clearly impressed.

"It was to talk to you regarding some... Sensitive matters," Mya said. Robb nodded, and headed for the trees.

"Very well... Keep up on our patrol," he said. Mya frowned, but with a determined expression followed after Robb.

They trooped through the woods, leaving the regular troops behind. It seemed an eternity before they came to a rock outcropping. Robb climbed up it, and Mya followed-Not quite as stealthily as him, but forgivable. She got down on her stomach and crawled up next to him, as he began scanning around with his binoculars.

It was unlikely that they'd run across any enemy forces: Joffrey's Army ahead of them, manuevering around the Crownlands: Probably heading for Antlers. They could close the noose around Joffrey just fine. Besides, being in meetings with lords, Braavosian representatives and all manner of other people over the past weeks had gotten old fast. Robb needed the forest, he needed to be out here. To be a wolf again...

"Your Grace, wouldn't it be better to do this back at camp?" Mya asked.

"That's what I was going to ask you," Robb replied glibly. "What's on your mind?"

The Vale woman frowned, but steeled herself. "In regards to the Stormlands... After the war."

Robb was silent, scanning through the green. It was slightly overcast, so the shadows played more havoc than usual. The Crannogmen were almost all invisible, but he knew they were all fanning out around the rock. Mya took a deep breath.

"I've spoken with several of my bannermen... They feel I would be suitable as the Lady Paramount of the Stormlands, given the alternatives," she said. "After all, we are at your side, fighting with you-"

"After a long, long time of neutrality," Robb stated. Mya grimaced, and Robb felt a slight sting of regret at his quick words.

"That was not my fault," Mya said earnestly.

"No," Robb agreed. "Loyalty to one's Paramount is usually a good thing... Usually."

"And as all of Cersei's children are bastards... Renly is dead... And Stannis is an enemy of us all, logically it falls to me to take up the role," Mya said. "One of Robert's true blood. A daughter who seeks justice for him, for what that bitch did to him."

"In terms of blood, no one would dispute that," Robb agreed. He frowned as he caught something just out of his eye's reach: A flash of gray. One of his troops? "Yet in terms of ability... There is much to question."

Mya scowled. "It is my birthright, Your Grace! What more can a daughter do, when her father's legacy has been so badly wronged?"

"Tell me," Robb said quietly, "if the Stormlords refuse to heed you, what will your response be?"

"I had hoped you would assist me," Mya said. "Assist me in achieving justice."

"Force of arms to secure your throne, you mean," Robb said. Mya scowled.

"Is that not what you have done, your Grace?"

Robb grimaced. She did have a bit of a point... However...

"Our goals were freedom from the Iron Throne, and to avenge my father," Robb stated. "When we have Joffrey and defeat his army, our goals are achieved."

"And the rest of the realm can rot?" Mya asked angrily. "... Your Grace?"

"I didn't say that," Robb said quickly. "But frankly, this is something you need to work out for yourselves. If we intervene... I'll just be replacing the Iron Throne with something worse."

"How is order a bad thing?" Mya demanded. "How is leaving the kingdoms in chaos a good thing? You're King, aren't you? You could take the Iron Throne, right the wrongs-!"

"That throne has brought nothing but ruin and destruction to everyone who ever took it," Robb growled. "And I will _not_ be the next person to fall for it!"

"And is leaving us to fall into chaos any better?" Mya demanded. Robb grimaced... And found he had no answer.

He stopped, as the sensation of fur and paws on the earth filled him. He could see, smell the world in so many different ways... _A tall stone, my human is sitting on it with a female... Not his mate...  
_  
"Your Grace?" Mya whispered. Robb's eyes narrowed. He looked through his binoculars... And yellow eyes stared back at him. He sucked in a breath.

"... Grey Wind," he whispered. He slid down the rockface, landing on the ground on all fours in a falling crouch. Just like when they'd run around Winterfell, climbing and jumping like squirrels in the trees. He moved carefully, getting in close. His wolf stood there in the open, staring at him. He stood up, walking through the ferns and grasses. A Crannogman, Jonas Cray, rose up from his camouflagued position in confusion, holding his rifle.

"Your Grace?" He murmured, as Mya tromped after him. He could sense the others around him: As though seeing through Grey Wind's eyes and nose. He could detect no threat, no danger...

"... Cover me. Grey Wind and I have some business," he said, kneeling down to stroke the top of his direwolf's head. The wolf nuzzled him back gently, and Robb felt a real smile come over his face.

"Your Grace," Jonas nodded. The Crannogmen faded away, as Mya frowned.

"Your Grace, we're not finished-"

"Yes we are," he said. Grey Wind turned and loped off, and Robb took after him. They ran through the forest, bounding from trunk to rise, over and through gully after gully. He felt the wind through his fur and his hair, and the ground under paw and boot. It all felt... Right. It all felt wonderfully familiar, and Robb realized he'd missed his companion.

Yet he had the feeling Grey Wind wasn't taking him on a run just for fun... There was a sense of urgency in his running.

The smell of smoke hit him then, and burning meat. He grimaced as the trees thinned, small huts and houses coming into view. Grey Wind stopped at the edge of the clearing the village sat in, and looked up at Robb as he caught up. Robb looked around the village, his nose filled with death. Small fires burned around the formally inhabited village, smoke rising into the sky. Grey Wind loped through, and Robb followed.

"Your Grace!" Called Mya Stone. "Your Grace, wait!"

She was persistent, he'd give her that. And noisy. Yet Grey Wind didn't seem to care, still loping on. They rounded a corner, to the center of the village... And Robb stopped short in horror.

"Wha...?"

Mya Stone skidded to a halt herself, covering her mouth. "By the Seven..."

In the center of the village, a bare tree stood... And in all of its branches were bodies. Men, women, children... Nailed to the wood and hanging in grotesque positions. In front of the tree were more bodies: Men and women tied to posts, their hands bond behind their backs, blood still oozing from round holes in their heads. Heads decorated pikes, their tongues swollen out of their mouths.

Robb walked around, bending down on one knee. He examined the bodies, his fists clenched. He could sense the other Crannogmen going through, scanning around. He saw Dacey Mormont, her face white with horror and rage.

"What... Who did this...?" Mya whispered. "Why...?"

Robb saw a few shells on the ground. He recognized the make immediately. "Blizzard..." His fist clenched.

Grey Wind growled, and Robb looked his way. The wolf stood outside a larger hut that was still smoldering. Robb sprinted over, and went in with his rifle out. He scanned in the interior... And held back a shudder. Mya looked in with her... And turned aside to throw up. He couldn't blame her... The state of the women in the hut was monstrous...

He heard a whimper. A wolf's... He knelt down and pulled up a rug, revealing floorboards. Under the hut laid another direwolf, a massive and familiar one, with bandages on her paws. A little girl was wrapped tightly around her, a dead stare in her eyes as she looked up blankly.

"Nymeria," Robb whispered. "Get the medics-GET THE MEDICS!"

\- - - - - -

It was nightfall before Robb returned to the First Army's camp. General Ryswell, Dacey Mormont, and his other commanders met him in his tent, looking over pictures taken of the village.

"Looks like it was an advanced raiding party... Hit them a few days ago, at most," Captain Flint grimly reported. "Our scouts report more villages in the area... Similarly destroyed."

"Survivors?" Robb asked softly. Flint frowned.

"A few dozen... Population records in this area are sketchy, but... The casualty numbers are..."

Robb very slowly nodded. "I see," he said. General Ryswell took a deep breath.

"We've done what we could for the refugees... Tried to spread the word to other villages. Many didn't believe us, but... We're hoping the photographs will help-"

"We're going to have to do a lot more than that," Robb growled. Ryswell nodded.

"Aye, Your Grace. We've got Shorthand on the story and-"

"No. Much more than that," Robb stated. He slowly rose. "General Ryswell... How many of your men are good riders?"

"About three hundred and fifty," he said. Robb nodded.

"Then I'll take them with my cavalry. We're going after Joffrey."

"Your Grace, I must protest!" Dacey Mormont said angrily. "Haring after that Bastard is something we'd all like to do, but you can't just leave the army for revenge-!"

"I'm not," Robb said. "I'm being perfectly rational... Perfectly focused."

"I don't see how, Your Grace," Ryswell replied.

"Because I'm going to advertise just where I'm going, and invite Joffrey to come after me," Robb stated.

"Your Grace, we have a plan. Your _own_ plan," said Dacey. "A plan that's working-"

"A plan that will take how much longer to fulfill? Weeks? Months?" Robb demanded. He took a deep breath. "We will _not_ allow Joffrey to do this. No more... No MORE of this." He took a deep breath. "He's a child... Raised on stories of his 'father' doing mighty deeds. Defeating Rhaeger in single combat: What better bait for him than the chance to do that to me?"

"You want to use yourself as bait?" Ryswell asked. Robb nodded.

"Yes... Yes I do. We pull him in... Send him a challenge to a duel, ride off for glory... And when he comes..." Robb growled, his eyes flashing yellow, "we swing around and _crush him._ Into _dust."  
_  
"Such trickery... Such abuse of the code of duelling might be seen as truly treasonous, Robb," the Blackfish spoke, having been silent all this time. Robb glared.

"It wasn't the work of eunuch soldiers in that village... It was _knights._ Men who swore an oath! Protect the weak! Defend the innocent! An oath the _King_ of Westeros is supposed to take and adhere to!" He looked around at his ladies and lords, "and what good is that oath? Have those men been punished by their lord for their crimes? NO! They ride even now, to destroy still more lives!"

Robb shook his head. "Lives that will never be avenged, that cry out for _justice_ even now! No... I will not let this continue. I will pull him in... And destroy him." He took a deep breath. "Such a mission will be dangerous... So make it clear to your men, it is voluntary-"

Greatjon Umber slammed his fist into the table. "Your Grace! You'll have more volunteers than you know what to do with!"

"Just enough to pull this off, Lord Umber," Robb said kindly. "Spread the word... Dismissed."

His ladies and lords filed out. Grey Wind remained behind, and Robb sighed as he scratched behind his ears. He sat down in a chair, as his wolf stayed by him.

"Grey Wind... This may be the dumbest thing I've ever done," Robb admitted. "But this has to end... One way, or another."

The look in the eyes of that little girl... They screamed at him. He didn't think they'd stop. Not until Joffrey was dead.

Grey Wind seemed to nod, and trotted out the tent. Robb, frowning, followed him.

They passed through the camp, men saluting or bowing as he went by. They made it to the hospital tent city, where a crowd had formed.

"What's going on?" Robb called. A nurse turned, and bowed.

"Your Grace, I... Well..." She gestured to the back of the tents. Robb followed, Grey Wind granting him a wide berth from the crowd. He paused and stared.

In the woods, staring back, were hundreds of yellow glowing eyes. Wolves... Hundreds of them. Robb looked to Grey Wind.

"Yours...?"

Grey Wind gestured to the medical tent, where Nymeria was held. Robb looked back at the wolves... And smiled.

"Will they fight with us?" Robb asked. Grey Wind howled... And the rest of the wolves howled right back, filling the night. Robb very slowly nodded. He turned to the crowd: Confused gazes from soldiers, nurses, and camp followers.

"... Don't be afraid," Robb called out. "After all... What do wolves have to fear... From other wolves?"

Howls filled the night behind him, and Robb smiled as there were cheers from his troops.

 _I'm getting Arya the biggest present for this when I see her again,_ he thought.

 **LXX: Half-Man's Project**

 _AC 300, Maidenpool, The Crownlands  
_  
 **Tyrion  
** \- - - - -

Tyrion had made it a policy to avoid dungeons wherever possible. Being a Lannister usually made that easy. Of course, when it came to Starks, all the traditional rules of existence that had been impressed on him from childhood by his father and retainers were usually thrown out the window. Or thrown into a skycell. Or blown up.

He and Jaime had both gotten this lesson once. Tyrion hadn't needed to learn it again. However, he had to admit to himself that his brother had always been the slower learner of the two of them.

Not that he would admit that to the Northern trooper leading him down to the cells of the castle. Well, not trooper: One of their 'marshalls', tasked with maintaining law and order by rules that even the Starks themselves had to follow.

"How long have you had this job, Marshall... Livingston, was it?" Tyrion asked. The younger man beamed with pride.

"Two months, milord! First in the family."

Tyrion nodded. "Very good. What did your family do before?"

"Turnip farming," Livingston said. Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

"Quite a last name for turnip farmers."

"Well, when the post office set up, everybody had to pick a name," Livingston said, "and Pa heard 'Livingston' as a choice so he snapped it right up! Sounded lordly, he said. Sides, some o' the other names fer suggestion were less... Dignified."

"So it was first come, first serve?" Tyrion asked, his vague attempt at small talk turning into a very strange insight into the smaller communities of the North. Livingston nodded.

"Oh yes! There was Duckson, and Wrathson, and Cooper, and Dorkless... Queen... Would be a bit confusing, I imagine."

"Of course," Tyrion said with a grimace. "You say you passed your marshall exams?"

"Yes milord. Still gotta do some training, but given the war, they assigned me to keep the peace among the troops," Livingston said proudly. "What an honor!"

"Yes," Tyrion said with a nod, as they entered the dungeon proper. "Quite... I can't imagine what they'd be doing without you."

"Yes milord," Livingston said cheerfully. "Anyway, here's your brother." He gestured to the cell, which held a rather bruised and red faced Jaime. Tyrion looked at his disheveled brother, and sighed deeply.

"I will speak to him in private," Tyrion said. "That is guaranteed under your code of justice?"

The marshall nodded. "Absolutely, milord, absolutely!"

"Well...?" Tyrion held his hands apart. The marshal blinked, and then nodded as his mouth formed an 'o' of understanding. He unlocked the cell, allowing Tyrion to shuffle in. He closed and locked the door behind him, waved, and cheerfully walked away. Tyrion watched him go, and sighed.

"Well! Even a place like the North has it's shallow ends of talent to draw from," Tyrion observed.

Jaime was silent, staring down at the floor. Tyrion sighed, crossing his arms.

"... You know, I've read that certain men, after being released from prison, simply cannot adjust to a life outside of bondage," Tyrion spoke. "They thus seek to be imprisoned, again and again. Now, I wouldn't want to presume anything, but given how things have been going-"

"Shut up," Jaime snarled, straining against the steel holding him. "I didn't do this to be mocked by you!"

"Well, you're getting mocked, so as the Greyjoy says, 'deal with it,'" Tyrion replied. Jaime looked up and glared. Tyrion sighed again, and sat down.

"... I know why you did this," Tyrion said. "And I can assure you... Cersei is not dead."

"Did the Greyjoy tell you that, too?" Jaime sneered. Tyrion raised his eyebrows.

"Actually, he did," he said, pulling out papers from his coat. "As did Bronn, and Varys, and even Oberyn." He held the letters out for Jaime, who slowly read the words inscribed on the paper. "None of them has a motive to lie: Indeed, it would make more sense for them to declare that our sister is dead. But more than that, I know because I _know_ her... And I know how she got out."

Jaime looked up at Tyrion, eyes widening. "Then you know-?"

"Where she went?" Tyrion worried his lower lip. "I have a fair idea. Yunkai is my guess: That's where we got most of our 'foreign volunteers'. It's also where I set up a contingency escape route. Trade some secrets of the North we'd managed to grope out of shit for safety..." Tyrion chuckled. "Just imagine her, in the glorious sun, badgering her slave army to conquer. She might finally be happy: She gets to be like you... Or how she thinks you are."

Jaime's shoulders slumped. Tyrion shook his head.

"Even with that said... Even though I know why you tried to do it-"

"I've made things difficult for you," Jaime laughed. "Yes... I figured it would..."

Tyrion folded his arms. Jaime sighed. His younger brother raised his eyebrows, and shrugged as he tried to stay comfortable on the hay covered floor.

"No more difficult than usual," Tyrion said. "I am, after all, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. Allied to the North, and nominally part of their 'commonwealth'. You'd be surprised how many things you can get away with under those conditions."

"So that's really it then?" Jaime asked quietly. "You're just... With the North. Part of their banner?"

"You know me better," Tyrion admonished. "We're allies... It doesn't mean slaves. And considering how things might have gone? We're in the best possible position. They don't want to drain us dry of gold as reparation, they don't want us all exterminated... It's rather enlightened. Or foolish, perhaps." Tyrion shrugged. "I suppose when you have such power, you can afford to be gracious."

He rubbed his chin, thinking a bit, before he spoke again:

"More than that though... It's... A puzzle. A mystery. An entire generation of Northerners have grown up with wonders of science, culture, and technology that we can scarcely imagine. Turnip farmers' sons have been raised up to positions of authority. It's madness, it's revolution... It speaks to something bigger happening, Jaime. And I have the chance to shape this new era. The chance to change the course of history..." Tyrion shook his head. "And the chance to save you from death. How could I possibly turn it down?"

"And I thank you for that," Jaime said slowly, "but... Even after everything he did... Everything... We did..." He looked at the ceiling. "For it all to just... Come crashing down..." He shrugged his shoulders. "I... I don't know where to go from here."

"Well," Tyrion began, "you could start with what you've always been, to me... A good brother. It's not a bad place to start... Given everything."

Jaime laughed humorlessly. "I see..."

Tyrion shrugged. "And I'd rather you at my side in a den of wolves than anyone else... So please. Stop doing such stupid things?"

"It'd be hard to see how my reputation might sink lower," Jaime sighed. Tyrion hummed.

"By the way... What exactly happened? Apparently you tried to hold up a coach crew but they got the drop on you?"

Jaime made a pained face, which let Tyrion know that this was going to be good.

\- - - - -

 _He waited for the driver. She was easy to pick out at the coach station: A pretty but tall woman in the new dress and coat combination many Northern women had taken to wearing, with a broad brimmed hat, tough boots, and gloves. She even had a sash around her waist: Bright yellow. She walked up to her coach, which was nestled in a far part of the lot near the fence. Perfect place to ambush her._

 _The moment her back was turned, fiddling with something on the side of the coach, he vaulted the fence, got up behind her and seized her. One hand around her mouth, the other holding a knife he held at her throat._

 _"I won't hurt you, if you cooperate," he hissed. "Nod once if you agree."_

 _The woman, shivering a bit, managed a nod. Jaime leaned forward, as she fiddled nervously with her handbag._

 _"Now... You're going to take me to King's Landing. If anyone asks, I'm your assistant on the trip to Antlers. You do as I say, I won't hurt-"_

 _She lifted a small bottle with some kind of button on the top, and squeezed it in his face. Red hot pain and itching blasted from it, filling his eyes, mouth and nostrils. Jaime screamed as he fell back, trying to rub the concoction from his face._

 _"AAAAUUUGGHHHH!"_

 _"BASTARD! CUNT! RAPIST! HELP!" She screamed._

 _"N-NO! I-ARRRGH!" Jaime tried to explain he_ wasn't _a rapist and only needed a hostage to get to a coach, but he was interrupted when her steel toed boot met his balls. And then his face met the ground, as the woman continued to scream and kick him._

 _\- - - - -  
_  
Tyrion was silent. Jaime looked up at him, blearily.

"Please... Please, for the love of all the Gods... Don't laugh."

"... That's the hardest thing you have ever asked me to do," Tyrion admitted. "But I'll manage..."


	32. Even more chapters!

**LXXI: The Wings of Winter, Part 1**

 _AC 300, Over the Trident, The Riverlands  
_  
 **Eddard Karstark  
** \- - - - - -

He would be remembered in the same breath as Theon the Genius. This, Eddard Karstark had sworn, when he'd seen a bird take to the air. When he'd met Theon Greyjoy.

The young man hadn't seemed like some all knowing master, calm and wise. He actually laughed, smiled, enjoyed going out to hunt. Yet he talked... So much... And as he talked, he had learned. His brothers had been bored with Theon's speech: Unable to understand. Yet to know what the air was made up, what the earth beneath their feet was made of...

It had been amazing. But the moment it had all changed was as they rested in the shade, and a bird took flight from the tree they sat under. Eddard had watched, and wondered aloud:

"How does it fly?"

And Theon Greyjoy had told him. And from then on, studying how things moved through the air... Yes. That was his main goal.

His father had been indulgent, to a point. The fact that firearms and explosives were making them rich and prosperous under Eddard's leadership was a huge boon in his favor. Enough to let him experiment, with plans the Greyjoy had created for engines that ran off the products of the Bolton towers (gasoline, he thought). With the balloons that House Umber soon spread all across the North. With wings of wood and canvas.

The Rocketfaust, though unrelated to his dreams, had been a big help. First, because observing it had allowed him to better understand the shapes that flew through the air best. And second, because they had made the Karstark name synonymous with deadly, powerful weapons. Weapons everyone in the North, the Riverlands, and now the Reach wanted. It was that surge in income that had let Eddard put a few lower level relatives and managers in charge so he could do...

 _This.  
_  
The land spread out under him. The wind in his face. The roar of the engines...

Which sputtered. Eddard's eyebrow twitched behind his goggles. He yanked on the starter lever, and the engine just sputtered. He sighed.

"CHECK THE DAMN ENGINE AGAIN!" He shouted to Brinna, his Gearwife. The small, spritely woman was covered head to toe in leather and canvas clothing, with her own goggles. She turned to the engine and checked over the engine assembly: A hissing, grinding, growling conglomeration of steel and iron. It was held in the lattice-like framework of ironwood that held the skiff to the bottom of the bullet-shaped gas bag. On either side of the skiff-like platform, large canvas wings stretched out to keep them aloft. And at the back of the engine was a propeller. A propeller that was supposed to be spinning.

"THE VALVE JAMMED AGAIN!" Brinna shouted. Eddard groaned.

"WELL FUCKING FIX IT!" He bellowed.

"I CAN'T WHILE WE'RE AIRBORNE!" She shouted back.

"WE HAD TO STOP THE LAST FIVE TIMES FOR THIS!" Eddard roared, pulling the control yoke for the wings and the rudder. He was able to guide the airship a bit better, thanks to the wind being at their backs... And then it was coming from the side and they were wandering off, the marshy lands of the Trident area becoming more prominent on the horizon.

"DO YOU WANT TO CRASH AND DIE THEN?!" Shouted Brinna.

"YOU'VE DONE IT ENOUGH, YOU CAN DO IT WHILE WE'RE IN THE AIR!" Eddard yelled. He could imagine Brinna was rolling her eyes at him. So what if she was right... A lot of the time? This was his dream, he was her boss, she could make it possible! She had to!

It had been the same. Over and over. His beautiful magnificent airships, plagued with problems their first time out. Broken steering ropes. Gas bag leaks. Engine problems of every description. Shooting oneself with a Mini-Bolter.

They'd started this journey with nine... Now they were down to five.

Eddard Karstark shut his eyes tightly and sighed.

But it would be worth it. It would be. Eddard Karstark would deliver mastery of the air to King Robb. For the first time since dragons flew, man would command the skies. It would be the North with science, rather than some barbarian foreigners with flying lizards. It would be Eddard Karstark, the Air Stark!

All he had to do was make it... All they had to do was make it...

Brinna patted his shoulder. He looked back... and twitched again. The nearest airship to them was leaving a long trail of smoke.

"MY LORD, I THINK THAT'S-!" Brinna began, but Eddard waved his arm.

"IRONSON! I KNOW!" He shouted back in resignation. He sighed, long and hard. "SIGNAL HIM TO LAND SOMEWHERE SAFE-!"

The airship went down, fast... Fortunately, into the waters of the Red Fork and not the hard ground. They skidded to a halt on the shore... As the wind pushed the balloon over. He could see the crew tumbling onto the shore, far below.

"... THEY MADE IT!" Brinna shouted, clearly trying to cheer him up. Eddard very slowly nodded.

All they had to do was make it... All they had to do was make it...

It would all be worth it... It would all be worth it...!

 **LXXII: Meanwhile, in Winterfell Part 2**

 _AC 300, Winterfell, the North  
_  
 **Bran**

 _He was flying. Over the streets of Winterfell, under them, through them: He moved seamlessly, from feeling small, quick and feathery to feeling Summer's pads on the ground. He could smell the exhaust from the coal fired factories. He could feel the heat, scuttling on eight legs, as a stoker worked the furnace in a building basement. He watched a man writing furiously in a study, feeling drowsy as he rested in a furry ball on a pillow..._

 _Then up he went, through the clouds. Flying again, faster than any bird, across the land and the sea. He saw gleaming towers of metal, shining in the dipping sun. He saw a dangerous looking man with an eyepatch and black hair stalking through a distant city with a whistle on his lips. He saw a blonde girl, dictating letters to another while she stroked the head of a sleeping dragon. He saw Joffrey, smiling over a letter as he yelled orders to men in steel helmets. He saw Sansa on a ship, sitting alone while a brutal looking knight leered at her. He saw Theon, sitting with Arya in a room as they watched over a bed with a man in it. He saw Robb, riding hard along a river, followed by an army in gray._

 _He saw Jon, in a dark hall, talking hurriedly to a panel of men. He leaped over the Wall, so high, so far. He journeyed over lands covered in ice, rocks, and trees, desolate and unchanging. Then he saw it: A tree. A mighty tree near a ridge, standing tall. An ancient thing, with roots that went deep into the ground and spread across the world. Bran didn't know how he knew that. But he accepted it._

 _And before he could study the tree further, the three eyed raven appeared. It perched on a branch, just above him. It stared down at him, and cocked its head. Bran frowned._

 _"Who are you?" Bran asked. "What do you want?"_

 _The raven tilted its head. "... Good questions," it spoke back. "Yet... Have you answered those for yourself?"_

 _Bran considered this a very big question indeed, so he thought about it. He shook his head._

 _"I... I am Bran Stark... And I want to know who you are."_

 _The raven... Almost_ laughed. _It flapped its wings, and feathers spread out into the air around him. Each grew in size, massive, until their shadows stretched across the white, snow covered plain. Bran started and looked up at the feathers. No: Now they were trees. Giant trees, black and dead and blotting out the sun._

 _"Bran..."_

 _He heard the voice. It was impossible to ignore, impossible to forget._

 _"Father, I-!" His smile died in an instant as he saw his father. Ned Stark stood tall, solemn, with his skin rotting away from his skull. His inner jaw was exposed as ichor dripped from the wound. The ghoul held his greatsword Ice in his rotting hands, and lifted it aloft over his head. Bran stumbled back, barely avoiding the blow of the blade._

 _"FATHER?!" Bran screamed in shock and terror. He scrambled back, bumping into a familiar hug. He looked up to see his mother... And a rotting, blue eyed ghoul leered down in a parody of her loving face._

 _"Bran," his mother hissed, and Bran struggled away frantically. He got to his feet, and ran, the air burning in his lungs. He skidded to a halt as Robb and Jon approached, their eyes glowing blue, their faces rotting. In each of their hands, was the head of their direwolves: Grisly trophies they were showing off._

 _"No... No, no!" Bran squeaked in panic, taking off as fast as he could. He barreled through the terrible dead forest, blue eyes in rotting faces following him everywhere._

 _Arya, limping with Needle as she grasped for him._

 _Sansa, wrapped in spider-web like cloth, pale as death, her jaw rotting away._

 _Rickon, feeding on the remains of Shaggydog like a crippled vulture._

 _Maester Luwin, split in two, dragging himself after him._

 _Hodor... A mass of maggots, lumbering like a hungry bear._

 _A boy in a Crannogman ghillie suit, just staring into his eyes..._

 _So many faces... So many people... All turned into these things..._

 _He stumbled into a glen, where a great black stone arch stood surrounded by pillars of ice. His lungs burned, his eyes sought help frantically. He saw a steel chair under the arch, its back turned to him. He could hear gears clicking and wrenches turning and smell sulphur and fire: It could be only one person._

 _"THEON!" Bran bellowed, running for the chair. Jagged ice spikes rose out of the ground, barring his way. He ran, racing like he had from the rooftops of Winterfell, chasing after his older brothers. He slid around the arch and lunged forward, seeking his foster brother. He slammed into him, and held him tightly._

 _"THEON! THEON, I NEED-!"_

 _He was cold. Cold as ice and metal. Bran felt an arm seize him, stronger than any flesh. It lifted him up, and he struggled and cried. He looked down to see Theon. Theon looked up, his face cold, his eyes blue... What was still flesh. The rest of it was made up of gears, levers, metal panels, all arranged to imitate muscle and bone he'd seen in Qyburn's anatomy books. It led to the arm that held Bran aloft, and with a creak and ticking of gears, Theon rose. He still stared at Bran, dead, like it was a puppet. Bran screamed at him, over and over, seeing,_ feeling _the rest of the undead parodies of his family and friends gather around him. He felt a cold hand, strong as steel, grasp his chin and turn him. He looked into beautiful, unearthly eyes: The same blue, but brighter._

 _Cruel eyes that silently laughed at him, as the heat fled from his body. As cold settled into him, filling him, removing any memory of joy or happiness...  
_  
"My Lord! My Lord! Bran!"

Warmth exploded across his senses, and Bran's struggles intensified. He screamed as he felt something huge and furry licking his face, and his eyes flew open.

"Ahh... Ahh... Haa...?" Summer was there, on his bed, licking him and holding him down. He looked around, drenched in sweat. It was his room: Posters of the bands and shows at Winterfell decorating the walls. A _Winterfell Direwolves_ tunic, signed by Ravage Rush the team captain, hung near his window. All sorts of contraptions Theon had made him, and a few he'd made himself, littered the table with books and photographs of his family.

At his side was Qyburn, and a secretary: Jenny Snow, a teenaged girl who helped him with homework. The old doctor eyed Summer carefully, but Bran nodded to his direwolf. Summer retreated, moving to Bran's side to maintain a comforting watch. Qyburn produced a small tube, and flipped a switch: Light emerged from the end, and he held it up.

"Look at me, eyes wide," Qyburn said. He flashed the light into Bran's eyes, making the boy grimace. The doctor took his pulse, examined his tongue, and a few other standard examinations that Bran didn't think would actually help him figure out what was wrong with him.

"Is... Is Lord Bran going to be all right?" Jenny asked nervously, clutching some papers to her chest. Qyburn studied Bran carefully.

"My Lord?" He asked. Bran glanced at Jenny, uncertain... Qyburn nodded.

"Miss Jenny, please see to Lord Bran's schedule. He needs rest," Qyburn ordered. Jenny sputtered.

"B-But, the Queen is coming today! There's still so much to do-!"

"Go! ... Please," Bran said, trying not to sound so harsh. "Just... Wait outside."

Jenny nodded, and reluctantly walked off. She shut the door behind her, and only when he was sure she was gone did Qyburn turn back to his lord.

"What happened?" Qyburn asked, producing his ever ready pen and paper. Bran took a deep breath, and described the dream as best he could. Qyburn asked a few questions, general ones for clarification or for context, but otherwise he said nothing. The doctor had always been difficult to figure out, Bran reflected: While he liked the eccentric former maester, and Theon seemed to trust him, Luwin had always had some dislike for him. It was difficult for Bran to decipher: Qyburn was supportive, understanding, and yet... Kept his distance.

Not too different from Theon, or even Robb, Bran supposed.

When he finished, he was staring back at Qyburn as the doctor compiled his notes. Only when he was finished did Qyburn look back up at him, his face serious.

"My Lord... As to the events over the sea, I'm afraid I cannot say. However, a raven did arrive this morning about your sister's rescue by Lord Theon. I can send an inquiry to Castle Black-"

"Please do," Bran said. Qyburn nodded, and slowly rose. Bran looked out the window, at the bustling and lively courtyard of Winterfell. He stroked Summer's coat, as the direwolf sat with him comfortingly. Merchants and mechanics went to and fro. Servants put finishing touches on banners. A band warmed up on a stage. The guards were watchful, but secretly merry.

And every face was one he'd seen. With blue eyes and rotten flesh.

"Miss Jenny has seen to the arrangements," Qyburn said quietly, walking back. Bran was unperturbed: He'd heard them talking, smelled them... Like he was Summer and yet Bran at the same time. "... So... When do you wish to go?"

Bran started, and looked at the doctor. "Pardon?"

Qyburn smiled, a bit wanly. "Beyond the Wall?"

Bran gaped at him. "Hwah? I..." Bran looked down at the sheets, and gripped them pensively. "... I don't know what you're-"

"You're being pulled. You said that, many times, about these dreams," Qyburn said, almost gently. "This overwhelming sense of purpose, dropped into your hands. It's... Rather classic, actually."

"Classic?" Bran asked curiously. "Like, what... A story?"

Qyburn nodded. Bran grimaced.

"But... But this isn't a story," he said earnestly. "This is... This is dreams, and this is reality and-"

"And in the end, my Lord," Qyburn said, "we are _all_ stories. A noble lord slain by a bastard born of incest. A doctor called mad and forced to wander. An orphan genius who changes everything... A boy and his dog, striking out to save the world." Qyburn's smile grew. "It is obvious what these dreams want you to do: Go beyond the Wall, and seek out answers. It's a story, too... One you wish to see the end of. One we all need to see the end of."

Bran swallowed. "I... I cannot do it alone," Bran admitted. "I can't just... Leave everything-"

"I do believe your role is finished today, Lord Bran," Qyburn said with a nod. "As steward of the North, you've performed well. However, a queen is coming... And she can handle that end. The question is... Do you want to take up your part now... Or wait?"

Bran shook a bit. Summer licked his cheek. Bran smiled at his direwolf, and sighed heavily.

"... Based on how... How intense it was," Bran said, "I'm guessing... They want me to get there soon. Right?"

Qyburn nodded. "That would seem to be how this has escalated, yes."

"... And if I tell my mother, she'll only try to stop me," Bran said.

"Most likely," Qyburn said. Bran looked up at him.

"... Why do you believe me? Even Maester Luwin is a bit..."

Qyburn smiled and shrugged. "I'm not bound by chains... And besides," Qyburn cocked an eyebrow, "it should prove to be... Quite fascinating."

"Wait, what?" Bran started. "You... You can't just come with me!"

"Why not?" Qyburn asked. "Even with Hodor, you won't get very far."

Bran grimaced. "That's true... But why...?"

Qyburn chuckled. "Call it... A bit of scientific interest. Besides... One needs a mentor on such a journey, do they not?"

Bran frowned. "Don't they usually die? Like Obi-Wan in the War for the Stars?"

"Well, we'll just have to see if it's that kind of story," Qyburn said with a nod. "So... How shall we proceed, My Lord?"

"Well..." Bran considered and thought. He looked out the window again. A troop of Crannogmen entered, carrying offerings in a wagon. Atop the wagon sat a boy... Painfully familiar. The boy stared back at him, his ghillie suit waving in the slight breeze. Their eyes locked... And Bran understood.

"... I have an idea," he said.

\- - - - - -

 **Dan Greenstone**

Nobody regarded it as particularly unusual when Lord Bran Stark went off on a walk with Hodor, Qyburn and his direwolf. The three often went out together, to see to negotiations in person, look at factories, even have fun at the theaters or other attractions around Winterfell proper. The request to have a Crannogman serve as Bran's bodyguard was also not unusual: Several had been watching over the Starks for quite some time. It raised a few eyebrows when Bran specifically requested Jojen Reed, Lord Reed's son, who had just arrived. It was speculated that Bran Stark may have been trying to win over Jojen, so that he might court Meera Reed in the future. Such gossip was juicy, and spread like wildfire across the city.

That Lord Bran went off when his mother and his new goodsister, Queen Margaery, were due was also unusual; a few sources close to the Starks though assured the local newshounds it was to procure something for his mother and his goodsister with his own hands. Again, the gossip was full of speculation, as Bran Stark was popular for his gentle ways and love of his people. The Direwolves pigball team was looking forward to showing off for him and their new Queen, in what was sure to be a packed exhibition game at Dustin Arena.

It was an hour before the carriages carrying their new queen and their lady when panic began. Dan Greenstone had gone to meet with Bran regarding the Tech Guild's welcome for their Queen, only to find Rickon Stark and his direwolf sitting on the Steel Chair of Winterfell as a serving maid read the young lord a story. Dan politely asked the young lad where Bran was, smiling in fondness: It was hard to dislike Rickson, he was too cute.

Little Lord Stark had then proudly proclaimed "Bran and Hodor and Qyburn went beyond the Wall!"

It was taken as a childish jest, and Dan had waited a bit. He'd played some bouncing bones with the young lord, in an extremely surreal experience, before he'd asked about Bran again. And again, Rickon proclaimed that he'd gone to the Wall. Dan inquired with the Castle Guard, see if he might reschedule his meeting with Bran... Only the guard couldn't find Bran. Or Hodor. Or Qyburn. Or the Crannogman boy.

A polite inquiry via radio to the city patrols soon discovered no trace of Lord Stark. Not at any of the parks. Not at the swimming baths in the caverns. Not at the library or theater. Not _anywhere.  
_  
And so Dan Greenstone, appointed master of ceremonies, cursed the day he took this job from Theon Greyjoy as he waited with a band for the royal family to arrive. Because no matter how much he'd begged and pleaded... He'd been elected to tell Her Grace that they'd lost her son by the heads of all the other Guilds, the City Watch, and Lord Rickon _himself.  
_  
He was so screwed...

 **LXXIII: Wolfpack, Part 1**

 _AC 300, King's Landing  
_  
 **Arya**

"Arya...? Arya...?"

She had to be dreaming. She had to be. She would wake up back in her bed in Winterfell, and all would be well. Theon would have something mad and amazing to show off, she'd happily help, they'd have a wonderful day and end it getting scolded by Mother...

She opened her eyes, her lids feeling unexpectedly heavy. Her body felt heavy, like when she'd gotten morphine after falling and breaking her wrist horse riding...

"Unfamiliar ceiling," she mumbled, as bare wooden roofing came into focus. She heard a snort. With great effort, Arya lifted her head and looked in the direction she thought the sound had come from. A face leaned into view, shadowed, aged... Yet so familiar.

"Theon?" She mumbled. Theon smiled back, looking relieved. She felt his arms go around her, and he pulled her into a tight embrace. She could still remember the times when she'd push back against such displays, thinking them far too girly. She was Arya Stark, future warrior woman. She didn't need hugs.

Yet here she was, hugging him back just as tightly, relieved tears leaving her eyes. She felt a bit of hot wetness on her shoulder: He was crying too, she realized.

"I missed you," she mumbled, trying to keep her voice from becoming thick with happy tears.

"You too," he said, still hugging her. Arya relaxed into the touch, feeling safe for the first time in forever. Not since that terrible day with her father. Not since hearing Sansa cry out...

"Sansa," she realized aloud. She pulled back, and tried to find her feet on the floor. Theon still held her, and she tried to struggle. "Sansa! We have to find her, we have to-!"

"They took her," Theon said in a flat tone. Arya looked at him, and bit her lower lip. It hadn't been... _That_ long, had it? The mischievous spark in her foster brother's eyes, the rebellious smirk; it was replaced with such weariness. The kind of grim expression her father had worn from time to time.

"... She knew," Arya realized in a moment. She cast her eyes about the room, searching for something. She found Ramsay sleeping in another cot, and Meera Reed standing watch over him with her rifle. She saw Shae nearby, busying herself with washing bandages. She looked out the window of the small room: A few Northern longcoat troops were stationed in the street below, as people went to their daily business. She saw the pale light and felt the early morning chill... And smelled the stink of King's Landing, mixed with the faint trace of smoke.

Theon nodded. "She was sharper than we gave her credit for, huh?" He was forcing a little smile. It was almost like his previous grins: Comforting yet with an edge of something mysterious behind it. Like he knew more than he was letting on. Arya found herself happy that at least, that had not changed.

"What happened?" Arya asked. "I had a drink and then I..." She slowly glared at Shae, who continued to busy herself with cleaning and not meeting her eyes. "You...!"

"She got you out of the Red Keep," Theon said, a bit sternly, "and kept you safe. So don't take it out on her, huh?"

"I could have helped her," Arya insisted. "I could have gotten her out too - She didn't listen - She was so _stupid -!"  
_  
She wanted to break things. She wanted to rage. Theon held her too tightly for that to happen though, and her struggles soon failed due to the simple fact that no matter how much she'd learned, her big brother was still bigger and stronger than her.

"I know," Theon said, stroking her hair to calm her down. "I know... But we'll get her back. We know where to look for her. But you won't help her if you just freak out, okay?"

Arya took deep breaths, and closed her eyes. Theon sighed.

"Trust me... It isn't easy at all," he said, "being calm and rational. But we will get her back. I promise."

Arya sighed back, still hugging him. She managed a slow nod, but shot a glare Shae's way anyway. Sansa had said that she trusted Shae so much, and yet...! How did that even work?!

"... Where are we?" Arya managed, changing the subject. Theon smiled.

"Safe house in King's Landing. You saw the guards, right?"

"Then... Then Robb's taken the city?" Arya asked, hope filling her voice. Theon laughed and shook his head.

"Turns out he didn't really need to. With the 'Royal Family' out of the city, and the Red Keep reduced to smoldering ashes, the good people were all too happy to let the _Seawolf_ put troops ashore to help with clean up and keeping order."

"... You blew up the Red Keep? Without me?" Arya asked, scowling a bit in envy. Theon shrugged.

"I'd have brought you along but, you know... You were a hostage, I was infiltrating the city to save you-"

"We could have done it together!" Arya grumbled, feeling very put out. Theon sighed.

"Fine. Next time I undertake a dangerous rescue mission, you can come along and help me blow stuff up. Deal?"

"Deal," Arya said with a nod. "Now tell me everything!"

And Theon did. From the battles he'd been in at the Whispering Woods and Golden Tooth, to meeting his sister and father and the Steel Wedding, to entering the city thanks to Tyrion Lannister. Shae had perked up a bit at the mention of his name, but had immediately gone back to cleaning. Arya sat on the cot next to her brother, still close, and chewed over this information thoughtfully. When he was finished, she really had only one thing to say.

"I'm hungry," she announced. Theon stared at her for a moment, and then nodded with a ghost of his old smile.

"Me too," he agreed. He got up, slowly, and made his way to the door. Before he turned it, however, a gravelly voice called out to him.

"Theon...?"

Theon turned around. Ramsay was stirring awake. Meera, who had looked like she was sleeping standing up, shook herself awake. She beamed at the infamous Bastard of Bolton, and moved to his side.

"Ramsay... How are you feeling?" Meera asked. Ramsay managed a nod.

"Better... I..." He looked at Theon and winced. "I'm sorry for shouting at you before, Theon. I didn't mean it-"

"It's all right," Theon said with a smile, walking over to Ramsay's side. He patted him on his left shoulder: The one that didn't have hundreds of bandages wrapped around it. "I'd have been pretty pissed too. I don't hold it against you."

"The fat lady...?" Ramsay asked. Theon sighed.

"That was Varys," he said. Arya couldn't help a snicker at that, which got her a smile from Theon. The Genius turned back to his friend.

"Area is secure, so just relax," he said. "And don't worry: I told your dad everything you did." Theon smiled a bit more widely. "I think you can expect a name change any time soon, eh?"

Ramsay grinned back. "A proper Bolton at last... Now... All my dreams can come true," he sighed, looking intently at Theon. Theon rolled his eyes, and pushed Meera against Ramsay. The Crannogwoman blushed, and... So did Ramsay? Arya stared in shock.

"Keep dreaming," Theon said dryly. "Now, I'm going to get us food... And see if Robb has destroyed Joffrey's army yet."

"You mean... He hasn't?" Arya asked in disbelief. Theon sighed.

"He's such a procrastinator, even now," he said, shaking his head. He turned and staggered out, nodding to the guard outside the door before he shut it. A guard in a gray long coat, much to Arya's relief. She looked at Ramsay and Meera, and hesitantly up at Shae. The handmaiden looked back, still not meeting her eyes.

"... You knew the whole time," Arya said softly, "what she was going to do."

Shae looked up at Arya, and nodded. "She's a brave gir... _Woman,"_ she said firmly. "To do that for you... Her sister..."

Arya grimaced, and looked back out the window. She saw the people going about their business. Fishmongers, peddlers, peasants: Was it her imagination, or did they all seem less terrified? Less afraid?

"She shouldn't have," Arya mumbled. "Stupid Sansa... Always so stupid..."

For all that Arya had done to mock and torment Sansa, she still loved her. And for her to protect her, when usually it was the other way around... Arya didn't know how to feel about it. The moment Arya had seen her father's head hit the ground, to a baying crowd's approval, she'd decided she was no longer a child.

It just hadn't occurred to her that the same thing would have happened to Sansa, even as she stood a mere five feet from their father as he was executed.

It hadn't occurred to her that Sansa would have chased Arya away... Like she had with Nymeria.

Feeling almost sickened, Arya looked out towards the east. She could almost see her sister, staring back from the prow of an unmarked ship. Staring back at the home she might never see again. Trying to see her family she had tried to save.

Arya's fists clenched. She was not a child. She had killed a man. She had avenged her father, at least in part. She would not leave her sister to her fate.

One way or another... Arya Stark would bring her sister home.


	33. Still even more chapters!

**LXXIV: Cornered, Part 1**

 _AC 300, The Crownlands_

 **Lancel Lannister**

The camp was bereft of even the slightest expression of joy. Just the indifferent expressions of the Unsullied, and the long faces of what few bannermen remained.

Lancel Lannister had grown up on stories of glory and honor: What lad hadn't? The wonders of victory and the nobility of the battle charge. Brave knights roaring ahead, lances down, to mow down any opposition.

How had it come to this, he wondered? He walked like he was in a daze, the stink of men and horses heavy in the air. The fires weakly burning. The banners, emblazoned with lions, fluttering weakly in the early morning breeze. A sight that once filled him with hope and pride now…

Now he could never again see those banners without seeing dead, pale faces staring up at him. Unfamiliar faces, blood running down their cheeks. Screams of women and children, suddenly falling silent. His father, his brothers: Staring back at him in death. Staring in accusation. Staring in judgement.

Lancel closed his eyes and took deep breaths. He no longer ate: If he did, he would just throw it back up again. He could barely drink. His body seemed to move out of sheer habit. It was all he could do now. All he could manage.

Knights were supposed to be strong. Knights were supposed to be righteous. No matter what they did.

Lancel gathered himself, and resumed his march through the camp.

He approached the King's carriage, where for once the King was up with the sun. He was sitting under an awning, eating roast pork and apples greedily as Unsullied stood guard by him.

"Your Grace," Lancel greeted, kneeling. His knees felt like rusty hinges on an old door, but he managed to stoop with the appropriate respect. Joffrey looked at his cousin with a confident smirk.

"Cousin! What good news do you bring me?"

Lancel licked his lips, barely able to keep himself from gawping in utter disbelief. He'd seen what had happened to the men who had broke their masks in front of Joffrey. He'd seen how they died.

He was such a coward.

"Mance Tyrell's forces approach from the South," he spoke. "In a great host. The Northern army is to the north and to the west. We… We are cut off on all sides."

Joffrey waved his hand negligently. "It does not matter where the enemy is! We will crush him! Every traitor will fall!"

Lancel managed a weak nod. Joffrey slowly rose, chewing a leg of pork as he looked about his army with a gleam in his eyes. A gleam that made Lancel's gorge rise, even after being exposed to it day after day.

"Do we know where Robb Stark is?" Joffrey demanded. Lancel managed a nod, staring at the slight gap in his king's shoulder armor. With how often he lounged, the king was stretching out the expensive armor in ways even Lancel could see were vulnerabilities.

"We do, my Lord," Lancel said. "He has taken the town of Crossroads, some miles to the northwest. He sent a message by raven."

Lancel held the folded piece of paper out to Joffrey. The King took it and unfurled it, narrowing his eyes in glee.

"He's just inviting us there!" Joffrey crowed. "Just telling us to come and destroy him!"

"Your Grace," Lancel began slowly, "it could easily be a trap."

Joffrey snorted, and waved his arm around the army camped about them. "That's what these are for! Robb Stark will be so drowned in blood… We'll kill him. And then this war will be over," Joffrey said with a satisfied nod. "The proper King on the throne!"

Lancel nodded again, staying silent. His eyes still locked onto the King's vulnerable shoulder.

How had it come to this? How was he staring at his cousin's back, a sword at his hip, and that temptation rearing up in his head?

The Kingslayer… Kinslayer… Bad blood…

He was all that was left of his family. They'd been given word that his father and brother were alive… Lancel didn't believe it. He couldn't believe it.

Not after everything.

"Cousin!"

Lancel broke from his thoughts, standing at attention. "Your Grace?" He replied. His cousin gave him a glare that was meant to be determined and inspiring. It accomplished neither.

"You will bring me Robb Stark himself," Joffrey ordered. "Lead the charge, behind the Unsullied. Use the beasts…" Joffrey grinned. "I want to serve his head to Sansa. So don't crush his head!"

Lancel barely managed a nod. "Yes, your Grace," he said. Automatically. All automatically.

"And I will watch our glorious battle from behind!" Joffrey grinned, throwing a fist into the air. The baubles on the armor caught the morning sun, glittering beautifully. The Unsullied rose, as they always did. Even the ones who looked sickly, of which there were many. The remaining bannermen rose too, mindful of the guns at Joffrey's sides.

"Yes, your Grace," Lancel said. He managed another slow nod. "Of course, your Grace…"

"Now… Get to it!" Joffrey demanded. Lancel nodded again, bowed, and turned to muster the men. The war beasts the Unsullied had brought were soon being led up, their giant tusks glittering in the sunlight. They were huge things, like moving houses topped with spikes, draped in fabric, and with long noses they held above like trumpeters signalling the army. They were mighty beasts indeed… Yet they gave Lancel no comfort.

No, he reflected, as his squire helped him mount his horse, he had no confidence for himself. No confidence for the future. He could not be Jaime, and stab the Mad king. He could not be that hero.

So in the end… All he could be… All he should be… Is dead.

This, at least, his King could grant him.

"RIDERS OF THE ONE TRUE KING OF WESTEROS," Lancel bellowed, his volume magnified by desperation more than any hope, "ONE LAST CHARGE! ONE LAST FIGHT!"

The cheers he received were more than he'd hoped for. He almost smiled, before he turned. The horn sounded, and the war beasts trumpeted back. The army set off, under the rising sun.  
 _  
I'll see you soon, Father… I'll see all of you soon,_ Lancel thought _. Maybe the gods will be merciful… To a sinner like me._

 **LXXV: Cornered, Part 2**

AC 300, _The Crownlands, Crossroads Town_

 **Robb Stark  
\- - - - - - -**

The sun was in their eyes this morning. Burning bright over the plains, almost blinding. It would have been concerning to Robb, in the old days: Armies could easily approach with the sun, hiding their movements until it was too late. Catch an enemy off guard. He'd used the same tactic in a few battles with the Lannisters in the Westerlands: It was devastating to them, every time.

Yet the ingenuity of the North had prevailed once more. Darkened glasses, produced in abundance, granted most of the First Brigade's soldiers the ability to see past the glare. His own "sunglasses" let him tell the shape of the approaching forces, as he observed them through a shaded farseer. He was standing in the sept's tower, watching from the window. His troops were staying low, behind improvised battlements of stones piled against sheep fences. All waiting, as the masses of Joffrey's army approached.

A cock crowed and cattle lowed. The small sept's bell began to ring, signaling the hour to be ten in the morning. Robb lowered the glasses, and licked his lips.

"General," he load. Ryswell saluted. "Signal the artillery... Hold fire until I give the order."

"Your Grace," Ryswell said with a nod. The general relayed the orders over the radio, as Robb pensively watched. The battle lines were already formed against them: Long lines of troops in spiked helmets, with great, massive beasts walking slowly behind them.

They were gray and leathery, each as tall as a small house. Each had huge tusks, as long as a horse, covered in spikes and blades. Atop them were men, swinging whips and barking orders in a foreign tongue. The beasts lifted their long, long noses and trumpeted: A sound that was greeted by fearful whinnies by the horses in the town.

He heard an aide suck in a deep breath behind him, and Robb could only imagine the uncertainty filling his men's hearts.

Still they held though. Even with the threat of the Unsullied. He could only hope his speech last night still steeled all of them. His men.

The Unsullied lines came forward, their lines falling and rising a bit with the varied terrain. Behind them, and the mighty war beasts, Robb could make out the banners of the Lannister and Baratheon forces. Hiding behind their foreign slave soldiers. It made his blood boil.

He looked down at the courtyard of the sept. Grey Wind's yellow eyes met his. His direwolf huffed, turned and ran off, vanishing into the tall grass. Robb allowed himself a smirk, and looked out at the approaching army.

"Your Grace," Ryswell said, "they do outnumber us, at least four to one."

"That is a temporary inconvenience, General," Robb said with a nod. The general smiled wanly.

"Aye your Grace."

The bronzed slave soldiers dipped down, just a bit, as they crossed a ditch. Robb's eyes flashed, and he grimly nodded.

"General? Give the order... Open fire!"

The general spoke into the radio. Robb saw his men tense as the news was passed among their numbers. Saw them all rise, aiming their guns... Their captains raising their swords...

"FIRE!"

The guns roared like thunder, plumes of blackpowder smoke leaving the front line. The Unsullied troops rose from the ditch... And dozens fell right back in. The line continued to advance, the war beasts bellowing behind them.

"Second line, second line," Robb muttered, as the first line of gray-clad troops fell back and were replaced by their brothers. Another volley of lead was fired into the approaching lines, and more Unsullied fell. The musketeers fell back, but now riflemen with Ironrath repeaters and snipers added to the fray, keeping the pressure on. The war beasts reached the ditch, beginning to descend, and Robb nodded.

"Artillery... On the ditch: FIRE!" He roared. The order was relayed by radio waves, and a few seconds later the cannons roared. The ground exploded as the shells struck home, and many beasts that made it over the ditch died violently with terrible death screams. Many others continued forward, clambering over the ditch into the continued hail of bullets. The warbeasts stopped coming, and at this range it was possible to see they were pulling carts: Many carts, which dipped into the ditch behind them.

"They're just hitting us with this?" Ryswell snorted. "Arrogant... Completely arrogant."

Robb nodded, and yet he couldn't find it in him to smile. The lines of the Lannister forces were stacked up in the ditch, yes, but they kept sending over Unsullied: Not their main knights. It was wasteful. Granted, they had the bodies to waste but they had to know that this wasn't the bulk of their forces. They had to know this wasn't the full Northern army...

 _Something's wrong... Something is..._

Pillars of white smoke and green flames erupted from the ditch, as thousands of tiny, burning green stars ascended like rockets. They whistled as they arced, and Robb's eyes widened.

"TAKE COVER!" Robb bellowed, hoping he could be heard over the radio or over the booms. The fiery arrows struck the grasses in front of the barricades, and exploded. Most of them hit short, but several Northern soldiers fell from strikes, rolling or screaming as flames consumed them. Robb felt a savage pride in the fact his other troops, for the most part, tried to beat the flames out or continued firing.

"Medics forward, artillery, fire again!" Robb ordered. Yet another storm of thunder and steel followed, and more war beasts fell as they tried to rise from the ditch.

It was evident though that the Lannisters had not fired off all of their new weapons just yet: Another, even more massive storm of fiery arrows left the ditch and flew for the Northern lines.

A stray arrow struck the wall of the sept, and exploded below them. More arrows fell on the troops, cries of pain and dismay filling the air. Robb gritted his teeth.

"Pull back! Pull back, into the town!" Robb ordered. "Get any remaining civilians out of here, NOW!"

"SIR!" General Ryswell said, saluting and turning to relay the orders via radio. Robb turned and descended the stairs, the young Torrhen Karstark following. He made it to the ground floor of the sept and raced out, his aides following. His troops were rushing back, having enough courage to carry their wounded fellows with them. A few stopped to provide cover, firing back blindly into the green flames consuming the barricades. Cheers went up: Lannister cheers, as the shadowed form of a great war beast crested the fences and trumpeted in rage and pain. The rider was bellowing something, epithets in his own tongue.

"Pull back! Pull back!" Robb bellowed. He drew his rifle, and narrowed his eyes as he took aim. One shot, and the rider of the war beast fell back. The beast staggered, rumbling in uncertainty... An uncertainty that turned to fear and rage as a gray form rushed between its legs. Flames climbed up the flanks of the beast, and Robb gaped in astonishment as he made out his wolf carrying a flaming stick. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Gray Wind setting a war beast on fire with a stick was... Amazing.

"YOUR GRACE!" A soldier shouted. Robb nodded, and fired a few more shots back into the flames. Despite the war beast's panicked charge away from the lines, more Unsullied with Lannister banners behind them were approaching.

"Get over the bridge, and reorganize! NOW!" Robb shouted, firing several shots as he moved back. His troops followed suit, running or stopping long enough to provide cover fire. The artillery was still ringing out, but they were small guns and their accuracy would suffer in the confines of Crossroads.

Robb grimaced as he ran back. So far... He was reasonably sure this was going to plan.

Of course, the only way to know that was if it turned out well in the end... And that was a long ways yet to go.

 **LXXVI: Crossroads**

 _AC 300, Crossroads Town, The Crownlands  
_  
 **Lancel Lannister**

Lancel could not believe what was happening several thousand yards away from his command post. The Northerners: The invincible Northerners were _running_ from them! They'd lost many Unsullied, of course, and the crews on the fire carts had taken several losses. There was no disputing this!

Yet there the Northerners went, fleeing the eastern bank of Crossroads over the bridge! Fleeing _them!_

"Come on lads!" Addam Marbrand bellowed, waving his sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, "come on lads! We've got them! We've got them!"

The heir of Marbrand looked every inch the gallant knight, resplendant in red and gold atop his charger, as his cry was greeted with cheers from the other bannermen. The Unsullied, as usual, were unmoved: Standing at attention, ready to descend into the town once more.

"My Lord," Addam shouted at Lancel, and the only true Lannister shook himself from his distraction. He looked at the Marbrand, who was grinning.

"My Lord! We have them!" He cried. "We can run them down! We need the bridge: Fuck me, we need the bridge!" He turned to the bannermen under his command. "Lannis! Lannis, take your best men, get to the bridge! Go around the town, fast as you can, go, GO!"

The bannerman complied, and rode off furiously with several other knights. Marbrand turned to Lancel, grinning broadly. Not even aware of how much he'd insulted the only true Lannister there. Not caring.

Nor could Lancel care either, simply nodding.

"My Lord, I think a final charge can break through," Addam said excitedly. "I think we can catch Robb Stark himself! With the Reach marching against us, we can take that card and end this now-!"

"I will do it," Lancel said sternly. Addam blinked, and opened his mouth but Lancel cut him off. "No argument! Stay here... You are in command."

"I... Yes, my Lord," Addam said, taken aback. Still, Lancel could see that the heir of House Marbrand was compliant, despite defying him only moments ago. Perhaps he saw the desire Lancel held in his eyes.

Perhaps he was being kind.

"To me!" Lancel ordered. He took off, knights following him. They spread out into a great arrowhead-like formation, galloping over the flames. The great war beasts of Essos bellowed as they passed them, through the ditch and over it. Scrambling behind them, trying to catch up, the troops issued thunderers followed in.

The plan was simple: Punch through the Northern lines of smallfolk equipped with guns. They had broken under charges before: Peasants unused to real warfare A break here, and their thunder troops could close in enough to help slaughter them, inside and out. It was a good plan, a fine plan.

A plan that had never been tested, until now.

Lancel was acutely aware of the pounding of the hooves of the horses, the jangling of the armor, the roars of rage his fellow knights released as they raced over the burning ground towards the low wall surrounding Crossroads. Unsullied were fighting Northerners, even atop their own dead brethren. A few Northerners fired their rifles: Carn Ravyne, a knight he'd played with as a boy, fell to a bullet through his helm. Jorge Hastwyke, a newly knighted minor lord from the Stormland Reach border, felled to a shot through his chest.

Yet they were over the wall, and charging in. Lancel swung his sword at gray-clothed troops, and caught one in the back. He fell with a cry, and his fellow soldier turned to try and shoot Lancel. The only Lannister at the battle spread his arms, waited, as the eyes of the soldier met his.

He was a young lad, no older than him. Bit of a mustache on his lip, a ruddy brown. Cold blue eyes. A scar on his chin shaped like a star. His eyes narrowed, and Lancel felt himself smile.

 _Mother... Father... Brothers... I'm coming to-_

A knock to the side of his head, and he fell from his horse to the cobblestone street below. Pain was all that greeted him, then dizziness, then darkness.

It was what he wanted. Yet Lancel Lannister, in that moment, somehow realized he had not died. Not yet...

 **\- - - - - -  
Addam Marbrand**  
 **\- - - - - -**

"The silly bastard ran ahead of the thunderers," Addam grumbled, observing the progress of the battle through his farseer. He lowered it, and shook his head. He looked to the head slave driver, standing at proper attention. The savages seemed to know some form of respect, at least.

"Have the reserve enter the town from the flanks," he ordered. "We'll be the vanguard."

"As you wish, my Lord," the slave master said with a bow. He barked orders to the Unsullied in his strange tongue, and Addam looked over at his father. The older man was wiping his brow, looking quite exhausted.

"Father?" He asked. Damon Marbrand shook his head.

"Don't mind me... Come on! Press it!" He ordered. Addam smiled to his father, and clasped his shoulder. The old man nodded back. Addam turned to his knights, and raised his voice:

"ON! ON TO THE BREACH! FOR THE IRON THRONE! FOR KING JOFFREY!"

He was gratified to hear so many cheers, and he took off to the thunder of horses. The knights went hard, through the ditch as quick as they dared. The wall soon came into view, and they charged over the splinters rocks and lumber into the true thick of the battle.

The Northern troops in their long gray coats were fighting furiously: On foot and on horseback, as Unsullied, Lannister and Baratheon men fought them with guns, swords, spears, knives, and bare hands. Many a knight had fallen, but Addam felt a savage joy at how many of the Northern longcoats had fallen.

"To the square! To the square!" He called, and he charged forth. The thunderers of the Iron Throne erupted behind them, and he looked to see them approaching in a square unit of men. They kept reloading, taking hits, but dealing more death than they were experiencing. Addam's smile only widened.

Here, at last, they were no longer being made fools of by some upstart Northern barbarian with his fancy toys. Here was a _true battle._

"TO THE BRIDGE!" Addam insisted, and he urged his frightened horse forward. They stormed down the central road, the King's Road: The bridge was in sight. An ancient stone thing, older than even the Targaryan conquest, it had seen many a battle over time. Many a battle his ancestors had won, as a matter of fact.

 _It will again! It will again!_ Addam thought. The Longcoats were fleeing over the bridge, several of their number stopping and firing. A knight fell beside him, but still Addam charged. They covered the distance, just quick enough, and a Northerner not quick enough with his thunderer lost his head to Addam's sword. Marbrand laughed, seeing the crowded, vulnerable soldiers as they retreated over the bridge in front of him.

"Run them down!" Addam bellowed. His knights, though fewer in number, complied, and they all raced across the several hundred yard long bridge. His targets were in sight, vulnerable, helpless. He would slaughter them all, and then Robb Stark, and all this loss and humiliation would be avenged...!

He chanced a glance at the river... And saw several small boats along the far bank. Out of their sight until they crossed the bridge. All with thunderers. All pointed at him.

A roar of a cannon, and the heir of House Marbrand knew no more.

\- - - - - -  
 **Robb Stark**

Robb cursed as he heard the cannons go off, a young sergeant hefted over his shoulders. He was running as fast as he could manage with his burden and the crowd of men he had to batter through, but he still got the injured young man through and to a surprised medic taking shelter by a house on the western bank of the river.

"Your Grace, I-!" The medic tried, but Robb just set the young man in front of her on a stretcher.

"Help him!" He ordered. He pointed to the shocked, pale young man's face. "Don't die!"

"Sir!" They both cried. Robb turned and rushed across the street, spying the colors planted behind a garden wall. His officers looked in amazement and relief.

"Your Grace, we-"

"Sitrep!" Robb ordered. General Ryswell cleared his throat.

"Our forces are over the river... Mostly." He pointed over at the bridge, which was now on fire. Most of their troops had reformed their lines on the banks and were firing at anyone stupid enough to get close to the bridge. "The Lannister forces are all converging in the town."

Robb nodded, taking deep breaths. "Good... Good," he said. "The rest of our army?"

"Approaching, but we've lost contact your Grace," Ryswell said grimly. "If they were following their orders they should be here by now!"

"They should," Robb grumbled. "The Reach?"

"Their banners aren't in range yet," Ryswell said, wiping his beard of sweat and grime. "If they had a balloon up-!"

"We'd be able to see them, even in this," Robb sighed. He shook his head. "All right... The plan is still working... Workable. We just need a little more time."

"We can stack them up at the bridge, your Grace," Ryswell pointed out. "They seem damned determined to get here."

"Get me you mean," Robb nodded. "But if they pull away now, they could still escape. I want this ended _today,_ Ryswell."

The general nodded. "I know sir... What do we do?"

"I..." Robb trailed off and looked behind the general. The older lord frowned, and looked over his shoulder. He started: Gray Wind and Nymeria stood there, giant and silent. Robb's eyes met those of his companion's. He frowned. Gray Wind growled. Robb nodded.

It was strange. His wolf had not spoken anything, but he'd understood everything perfectly.

"My turn," Robb said calmly. He looked to the general. "I'm buying you a breather. Hold the line, no matter what! I will return. I swear."

The general reached out, and shook Robb's hand. Ryswell smiled, a bit wanly.

"The Starks deliver nothing but miracles, Your Grace," he said. "I think it's our turn."

Robb nodded. He ducked down and followed the wolves, who padded out through the town, away from the explosions and fighting. They then began to run, and Robb ran with them through the small forest that girded this part of the town. He could leap and dodge and jump around obstacles, as easily as the wolves, but not as quickly. That irked him a bit.

 _If only I could move as fast as them... Maybe Theon could invent something...?_

They broke through the trees, and a bank met them. The two wolves stopped, and Robb stopped with them. Gray Wind looked over his shoulder, staring at him... And then huffed, gesturing to his back. Robb blinked, but at the sense of urgency from his wolf he nodded and got up on top of his back.

It was... Awkward. No reins meant he had to hold onto Gray Wind's neck, and no saddle meant every bone and muscle was pressing against him. Yet Robb had never felt more secure, or more powerful.

The wolves took to the water, swimming across the river. It was swift, swifter than Robb could have ever managed, and they were across almost before Robb knew it. Gray Wind and Nymeria loped now, up the bank, faster than any horse. Robb felt like he was seeing through their eyes, knowing their senses... And he smiled.

For when they passed through the small wood on the other side of the bank, the wolves that had been shadowing the army were now with them. Running with them, charging with them. Robb looked about, his smile becoming more feral.

This too was his army, wasn't it? And the Northern Army's motto was to never leave anyone behind.

They swung around and loped into a gully, running furiously. Robb could smell blood, brimstone, and human fear ahead. The gully grew more shallow, wider, and as they rounded a turn, it became a ditch.

A ditch that the majority of the Lannister forces were attempting to cross.

A ditch with several war beasts, who all heard the howls of the approaching wolves.

Robb sat up on Gray Wind's back, and drew his revolvers. He opened fire the moment he saw the shocked eyes of the Lannister knights. The wolves struck next, falling like a furious river of teeth and claws.

Gray Wind, Robb and Nymeria climbed out of the ditch and roared after one of the war beasts: It panicked, trumpeting in terror as it charged away from the wolves. It crashed into another war beast, goring it, as men and horses died under their feet. Green flames burst into life as the fire carts were set ablaze by an errant torch, and fire arrows erupted like fireworks from the ditch.

The wolves rushed through this hell, biting and snapping and howling as the main force of the Lannisters and Baratheons fell into utter they were gone, running as fast as they could to move to the east away from the enemy forces.

Robb could only imagine the looks of dismay on the faces of the knights behind him, as a familiar song boomed over the plains.

" _ **Shoot to thrill, play to kill  
Too many women with too many pills**_  
 _ **Shoot to thrill, play to kill  
I got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will  
Yeah~!"**_

It wasn't Ramsay singing, that Robb knew for sure. It sounded like Xanner, the bassist. Still, he was doing an admirable job. Robb turned to look back, and saw more Northern troops charging down from the north: War Wagons and cavalry leading the charge, and the mighty band wagon bellowing right in front. He'd never seen a more heart warming sight.

Gray Wind growled. Robb looked ahead. He could smell... Smell something familiar, amid the blood, smoke and death. His eyes narrowed.

 _Joffrey..._

Even like this though, the wolves were not enough to capture him. Not enough to take him alive. Not without sacrificing them. Robb had lost so many men... So many friends...

A buzzing sound filled the air, and Robb looked up. His jaw dropped. A large balloon, shaped like a bullet, was flying overhead. Underneath was a spider's web of wire and rope, supporting a woven sled-like platform. Large wings spread from this platform, and behind it all but under the balloon was a fearsome, roaring engine. And atop the contraption were two people, heavily done up in leathers and goggles.

Yet the direwolf sigil on the side of the balloon made the allegiance of the vehicle all too clear.

"YOUR GRACE!" Shouted the pilot over the roar, "SORRY WE'RE LATE!"

"EDDARD?!" Robb shouted.

The pilot waved. "NEED SOME HELP?!"

Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident... Smiled.

\- - - - - - -  
 **Joffrey Baratheon**

That stupid Lancel! Those stupid Unsullied! Those stupid damn Northerners! All of them, traitors and failures! All of them bastards!

Already, from his carriage, King Joffrey Baratheon could see men in red fleeing. Fleeing down the road, running over the muddy fields. A blind panic.

 _All of them! All of them, useless!_ Joffrey snarled. Well... No matter. If he had to run, he would run. He would find his mother. Then they could fix this. Fix all of this. Get revenge.

"Driver," he ordered, "take us out of here! Now!"

There was no response. Joffrey, furious, got out of the carriage and glared up into the rising sun. "I said get us out-!"

The driver was dead, his throat torn out. A wolf, bigger than any he'd ever seen before, stood above him with a bloody nuzzle. The beast snarled, and Joffrey felt his bladder release, even as a low buzzing sound filled the air.

 _Oh shit... Oh shit... You're dead... You're supposed to be dead!_

He backed away, stumbling... Into a large, armored form. A familiar one. Joffrey looked up, saw the scarred face. A face he had mocked, over and over again. Yet now, here, it was the most beautiful sight Joffrey could imagine seeing.

"Hound! Help me!" Joffrey cried. "Help me!"

Ser Sandor Clegane stared down at him. Joffrey moved behind the knight, using him as a shield from the wolf.

"Protect me, damnit! I am your King!" Joffrey squealed. "Kill that beast!" He looked around at his remaining knights and retainers, all frightened. "DO IT! I AM YOUR KING! I ORDER YOU!"

The buzzing sound became a roar, and Joffrey looked up while covering his ears. It was a balloon: He'd seen them in Winterfell, before the war! Yet some horrible roaring, like a metallic beast, was issuing from its arse! It had great wings like a dragon, and thunderers mounted on it!

And standing on a platform, with two others, was the person Joffrey had been looking forward to seeing the most today. Smirking down at him, a rifle in his hands.

"ANYONE WHO DOES NOT WISH TO DIE," Robb Stark bellowed over the roaring engine, "SURRENDER, NOW!"

Joffrey's hands shakily felt on the revolver. He pulled it, and lifted it up shakily. He pointed the muzzle at Robb, that damned traitor. He'd kill him, right now! Slay the rebel! Avenge his father! Be the hero!

"FUCK YOU! I AM THE KING!" Joffrey bellowed, pulling the trigger. The gun discharged, and Joffrey screamed in pain as he dropped the heavy gun. He stared at his burned, bloody hands, tears filling his eyes. He looked up at Robb Stark: Still standing there, untouched, as the engine of the vehicle billowed smoke and flames. His eyes widened, he screamed louder-

And a blow to the back of the head silenced him, sending the boy king to the ground.

\- - - - - -  
 **Robb Stark**

The aircraft was so loud Robb could barely hear anything. Even cannons seemed less noisy by comparison. Yet from the smoke and sparks, he could tell they were in trouble despite being unable to hear the shouts of Eddard Karstark and his Gearwife.

"GET OFF, YOUR GRACE!" Eddard screamed, and shoved Robb off the skiff. The King in the North turned and landed, catlike, on the soft ground with a grunt. He got up, as the airskiff wandered away drunkenly. He grimaced as he saw it slam to the ground, the engine on the back bursting into flames.

"Get out, get out...!" Robb shouted hoarsely. He was rewarded with two figures running from the vehicle, as it was quickly consumed by the flames. The vehicle, now pyre, collapsed into a flaming ruin as Eddie and his Gearwife took refuge. Robb moved to help, but a growl from Gray Wind turned him around. He drew his revolver, pointing it at Sandor Clegane.

The tall, scarred knight stood before him, an unconscious Joffrey in his arms. The tall man then dumped the blonde boy from his arms, letting him collapse at Robb's feet. Robb looked down, and then back up.

"What's this?" Robb asked.

"You slew my brother, Your Grace?" Asked the Hound. Robb nodded, pulling the hammer back on his gun.

"I did."

Sandor Clegane drew his sword, turned it down... And knelt in front of Robb, the blade held out in respect.

"Then I do so swear House Clegane to you, Robb Stark, King of the North and the Trident," Sandor said gravely. "And offer you Joffrey Waters, the bastard who ordered the death of your father. Do as you wish... I am at your mercy."

Robb looked at the rest of the servants and retainers. They were all kneeling as well, terrified. Robb looked down at the beaten form of Joffrey, licked his lips. Grey Wind growled. Robb shook his head. He stepped forward... And offered his hand.

"Rise, Sandor Clegane," Robb said. Sandor looked up. He stared at the proffered hand in confusion. "Rise. I know you protected my sister, and for this I am grateful. Your crimes... We can address at a later time, but for now? For now..."

Robb looked over the battlefield, back towards Crossroads. He looked back at the Hound.

"For now... I tire of death. Take my hand."

Sandor, reluctantly, did so. Robb pulled him up with some difficulty: The Hound was a very large man. Robb looked him in the eyes, and the Hound stared back steadily.

"Order your men to surrender," Robb said. "They will be spared. You have my word."

Sandor snorted. "The word of a king means little to me," he said. Robb sighed.

"Then take it from a man who wants this war over... And all it takes is your word."

That seemed to mollify the Hound, and he barked for a horse. He was delivered one, and he rode off, wolves shadowing him. Robb watched him go, as Eddard Karstark and his Gearwife ascended the hill, panting. Robb turned away, and looked down. Blizzard lay there on the ground, burnt but serviceable. He knelt down and took the gun, turning it over in his hands.

"Oh Gods... That... That was... Wow," Eddard huffed, his mask and goggles off to expose his red, sweaty face. "What... What did you do?"

"Not much," Robb admitted, rubbing Gray Wind's head affectionately as Nymeria stood guard over Joffrey. "Just ended the war..."

He looked out over the fields of fire, burning orange and green. It was a terrible beauty he hoped dearly to never see again.

"Just ended the war," he repeated softly, holding Blizzard in his hand.

 _For now, Father... You are avenged._


	34. Again still even more chapters!

**LXXVII: Of Kings, Wolves and Ravens, Part 1**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, The Crownlands_

 **Theon Greyjoy  
** \- - - -

I had thought my patience and will were challenged in the North. That's why I set up bureaucracies, after all: So that the entire system of the North did not rely on me alone. Given everything else I had to get done in ten years to prepare for the White Walkers, doing endless filing would have ensured the Others would have easily conquered us and turned us all into zombies. So whenever possible, I set up systems with trusted men, learned men, and kept the bigger picture in mind as they got their smaller pictures running with mine.

It's frankly kind of a miracle it worked as well as it did. I felt like I was consistently hitting my luck rolls, with the majority of the projects I got done. Unions and companies and guilds alone were a nightmare and a half. Yet, even now, I remembered how Winterfell and White Harbor and Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square all looked. I remembered the people.

Yes, there were still peasants. Many of whom still cowered around lords. Most of the regular folk though held their heads high. They granted lords their respect, but were granted their own in turn. Children ran off to school, happily. Men gathered at bars, chatting about a hard day's work and how big a bitch their boss was: Without any fear. A teenager who painted a Ned Stark poster with a paint mustache was given a severe chastisement and a smack to the head, but no more. A man caught for petty theft was given a brief prison stay, or given the option to work off his debt. He could even get a local defender and a trial: Not necessarily a good one but he would have an advocate.

There were still places in the North where the Old Ways ruled, no doubt about it. Northern Marshalls had been forced to deal with a few upstart lords who executed their smallfolk on the smallest whim. Desertion of the Night's Watch was still a death sentence.

Yet despite all this, the contrast between the regular people who made up the troops of the North, and the King's Landing peasants, was stark indeed.

No pun intended.

With the Red Keep essentially ruined, we'd chosen a Manse near the Red Keep to conduct city business. As the ranking nobleman around, Prince Oberyn Martell had assumed a temporary regent position over the city and was dealing with the remaining nobles. Given we had the guns and numbers, few in the city had disagreed. Lord Varys, of course, served as his Master of Whispers, which had pulled everyone else into agreement with the new order. Bronn got tapped as head of the City Guard, though in practice he answered to Roose Bolton as the majority of the troops in the city were under his command. The Manderlys tended to the ship yards. Greatjon Umber was nominally in charge of the Coin, but in practice he let his assistant Lady Ros Hearthspeak handle it since she had practically run his house's finances herself. And me?

Well... I was in many ways, Robb's Hand of the King. So essentially I got to deal with everything else.

I stood in a fairly bare room, looking out onto the busy streets. Arya was on a couch nearby, studying one of the radios I'd brought along. She'd stuck with me almost constantly from the moment we'd come, and I didn't really mind it: I had missed my tomboyish little sister dearly.

Ramsay was also there, reading a book. He too had stuck close to me as of late. It was a bit... Heartwarming, I guess. For Ramsay, anyway.

There was a knock at the door, and I looked back. Ramsay rose and checked a mirror on the floor. He then nodded to me. I smiled.

"Come in!" I announced. The door opened, and a pair of gray-clad troops entered with a babbling old man between them.

"S-S-See here! See here! I-I don't know what you're talking - I have nothing to - Oh! Oh, my hip, my hip!"

"Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Theon," Meera stated, stepping out from behind the troops and saluting smartly. I smiled and nodded.

"Excellent work," I said. "He didn't give you any trouble, did he?"

Meera made a face. "He tried to solicit me," she snorted, flexing a bit in her skintight sneak suit. "Imagine! A maester!"

"I - Slander! Lies! Misunderstandings!" Pycelle babbled. Ramsay looked up, studying the old man.

"Is he in the 'Flay' category, Theon?" He asked, almost bored. Arya glanced up at me and Ramsay, almost looking excited. I considered it, rubbing my chin.

"Now now, Ramsay, flaying is quite illegal in the North and practicing it is strictly forbidden," I said. Ramsay frowned.

"We're not in the North right now though."

"No, we're not," I agreed with a smile, and Pycelle trembled.

"I - I - I, I mean, please, I did not, wha-wha-"

"Oh for fuck's sake," I growled, "would you cut that bullshit out? We'll die of old age before this conversation is over if you keep that act up!"

Pycelle gaped at me in some disbelief.

"I... But how-?"

I rolled my eyes.

"What's my nickname again, anyone? Anyone?"

"It's 'Genius', isn't it?" Arya asked. "Or is it Boomsquid now?"

"It's both, but I think the Genius one is more important right now," I stated. I pointed at his bare legs, as he was in just a sleeping robe. "You walk stooped over yet your legs lack any of the telltale signs of rheumatism. Your feet have high arches: Too high for you to be that decrepit. Oh, and this," I said, picking up an apple and throwing it at the old man. Pycelle gaped and threw his hands up... Catching the fruit. He stared at it, and then me. He dropped the apple, and worked his jaw.

He stood up straight, a bit of respect in his gaze.

"So it would seem," he spoke in a calm, clear voice. "Well. You have me. What do you want of me?"

Arya scowled deeply at the old man. I shrugged.

"First, some information. Why didn't you join the Lannisters in fleeing King's Landing? Your association with them is rather well known to us, so don't bother with the crap."

And would be further, once the reporters from the _Despoiler_ were finished with their exhaustive examination of records at various points in the city. At this rate some of the reporters would probably be getting book deals with how much they were finding. I wished them well: I'd written more than enough books that it was about damn time someone else started contributing.

Pycelle shrugged. "Simple. As Grand Maester, I would simply stay behind and enjoy the protection of my office. After all," and here Pycelle studied me, "we are both men of learning, are we not? You've enjoyed good terms with the Citadel: Would you really jeopardize all that simply to execute me?"

"Adorable," Ramsay snorted. "He thinks we can't kill him."

"No, no, sadly Ramsay," I said with a sigh, "he's quite right. Simply killing him just would not do."

Ramsay stared at me. He shrugged, and waved his shotgun around. "It would. Wave the shotgun around, whoops, he's lost his head. So sad."

Pycelle paled. I sighed.

"Yes, in basic practice, killing him would be very easy. Though I'd prefer something like... I don't know, nitroglycerin." I pointed at Pycelle's chest. "Too much will drop his blood pressure to nothing and he'll go into cardiac arrest."

"That's no fun," Ramsay pouted. "He'd feel no pain."

"It's all in the application," I insisted. "Point is, we can't just straight up murder him. That's not particularly just..." I glanced over at him. "Even if he was aware of the incest and did nothing. Even if he did intentionally fail to save Jon Arryn. Even if he did facilitate the sacking of King's Landing the last time... It's not enough proof for a court of law in the North. Therefore, we must let him go."

Pycelle smirked at Ramsay, and then at me. I smiled back, unpleasantly.

"However," I said, "we do in fact have photographic evidence of him breaking his vow of celibacy." I glanced at Meera, who handed over an envelope. I opened it, and produced several photographs, making a face as I did. "Yech. It's like a shaved goat going at it." I looked up at Pycelle, who was coloring furiously. "You really do get carried away, don't you?"

"I - You can't... Who would believe such - such witchcraft?" Pycelle tried. Arya actually laughed at that. I remained smiling unpleasantly.

"It's simple, Pycelle. I'm not going to kill you. Nor is anyone in this room going to kill you. Indeed... You're getting a new job!" I said cheerfully.

"Serving King Robb?" Pycelle offered. I shook my head.

"Nope," I said cheerfully. "Serving the new heir to Casterly Rock and the Lord-Ambassador at Large for the Westerlands."

Pycelle paled again, as I waved to the door on the other side of the room. It opened, and Tyrion Lannister waddled in, Bronn standing behind him with a smile.

"Hello Grand Maester," Tyrion said pleasantly. "So nice to see you again." He walked up to the table, and poured himself a glass of wine. "I must say, seeing you again really does warm my heart. That, or indigestion. We'll have so _many_ wonderful things to discuss as you serve under me."

"I - The Citadel - " Pycelle tried, but Tyrion shook his head.

"Terrible shame, but they will have received the photographs by now. And even if they don't, they'll be in the _Despoiler_ in a matter of days. So! You can serve my household, or you can let the Citadel deal with you as they wish." He sipped his wine, looking Pycelle in the eye. Pycelle stared back, his shoulders slumping.

"... What is it you command... My Lord?" Pycelle asked, defeated. Tyrion waved his hand to Bronn. Bronn snapped his fingers, and two guards appeared in the door. They stepped around the Northern troops, and took the former Grand Maester by the shoulders.

"To sit in a dark cell and rue the day you chose to serve my father and my sister, of course!" Tyrion said cheerfully. "After that? We'll see. Take him away."

The guards pulled Pycelle out. Meera and the Northern troopers looked back at me, and I nodded. They nodded back. Once they were gone, Tyrion sighed and clambered up onto the couch next to Arya.

"It was a long journey, but I thank you for the appropriate gift," Tyrion said, even as Arya glared at him. "Lady Arya."

"Half-Man," she said distastefully.

"Arya, be nice," I said kindly. "He did save Mother and Robb's lives."

"Mm! Yes, a debt that will not be repaid any time soon," Tyrion spoke, setting the empty wine glass aside. Bronn picked it up, and set it aside. "Though there's plenty to go around."

"His brother tried to kill Bran," Arya hissed, "and his nephew murdered Father-!"

"And _he_ didn't do those things," I emphasized. "Besides... He's here for a very good reason."

"What?" Arya asked. I smiled at Tyrion.

"He's taking over running King's Landing for me."

"It is the job you wanted me to take," Tyrion said simply. "Laziness does not become you, Lord Greyjoy."

"You revolutionize human civilization in ten years, then tell me about being lazy," I snorted back. "Besides, I've got more important work to do."

"Rebuilding a destroyed city and creating a new leadership for a fractured kingdom?" Tyrion asked in disbelief. "What could be more important than _that?"  
_  
I chuckled, and shook my head. "Let's just say it's... Complicated," I said. "Besides! Today's problems today, right?"

"Right," Tyrion said with a nod.

"Where's your brother, anyway?" Arya sneered. Tyrion shrugged.

"I'm afraid I don't know, but no doubt your security forces are keeping an eye on him... Now!" He looked at me. "Where do we begin?"

I smiled broadly. Yes, there was still a threat ahead, approaching from behind the Wall. Yes I had an obscene amount of work ahead of me, ahead of all of us... And I had a lot of blood on my hands.

Still... At the very least, we had this victory. This win. And all I needed to do, right now, was prepare for my victorious brother's arrival...

 **LXXVII: Of Kings, Wolves and Ravens, Part 2**

 _AC 300, Winterfell, The North_

 **Margaery Stark  
\- - - - - -**

Margaery sighed as she put down the scroll. Since she had married the King in the North, she had decided to at least learn a little about her new husband's family history. Unfortunately, she had somewhat ... underestimated the task. The Tyrell family line went back many centuries before the then Stewards of Highgarden had been named rulers of the Reach under the Iron Throne. The _Starks_ , on the other hand ... The royal apartments were in a refurbished section of the First Keep, a massive and ancient structure supposedly built by the first man to bear the name Stark, a man named Bran ... a man who lived _eight thousand years before!_ The list of the Kings of Winter was in itself a great work, even with the missing names of those lost to history, remembered only as 'The Stark in Winterfell'. Their deeds ...

 _Is it strange that I can read the exploits of Theon 'The Hungry Wolf', and feel_ happy _that I can see some of him in my husband? Not his cruelty or his bloodthirstiness, but his dedication to defending his people? His wrath on those who would despoil what he claimed as his?_ Even to this day, Theon Stark was remembered among the Andal peoples as a brutal, terrifying specter of death and destruction ... and she was married to his direct descendant.  
 _  
Did Theon Stark's wife sit worrying by the fire, praying to her gods for him to return from slaughtering his way through Andalos, or battling the Ironborn to win Bear Island?_ Casting aside that morbid thought, Margaery rose and strode across the polished wood floor of the room (heated from below by a clever network of pipes with hot water running through them: Theon Greyjoy's adaption of a larger system running through the walls of Winterfell) and stood by the large windows, fitted with thick but clear glass that held the late autumn chill. _Late autumn_ here _, at least: if it were this cold in Highgarden, we'd already be calling it deep winter. How cold is it going to get?_ Looking out, she could see the sprawling mass of Winterfell, and beyond it, the even larger (and growing) thing that was called Wintertown, with smoke rising from thousands of chimneys, and from the furnaces and foundries that fed the North's industry and war machine.

 _Grey stone, grey smoke, grey grey grey, is there no colour in this land at all? All seems to be a shifting scale between the white of the snow and the blackness of the night sky._ That was unfair, and unworthy, she knew: she had seen the gardens built for Lady Caitlyn by her late husband, the stunning beauty of the North's blue roses, the fierce, almost violent colour of the leaves of the godswood's heart-tree ... many Northerners filled their homes with bright tapestries and 'posters', and she had been gifted with undergarments that were as colourful as any she had worn in the Reach. _Is it simply that the Northern - that_ we _Northerners keep up a facade of stony, grim darkness, but keep the joyful, pleasant and loving side of their lives private?_ If so, it explained a great deal of how people North of the Neck behaved. Stark in name, stark in nature: bare, stripped of the unnecessary ... at least in public. _In private, with those they trust ... and love ... please, any god who listens, New, Old or beyond, bring him home to me ..._

A knock at the door drew her attention away from the window and back to the moment. "Come in," she called, already settling her features into what she privately called her 'queen face'.

The door swung open, pushed by one of the large guards in grey coats that stood watch outside of her quarters, and Brienne ducked through the door - she didn't need to, but it was likely a reflex for the tall woman. She wore the same trousers and long grey coat worn by the Royal guards, her cloak trimmed with fur. Her shoulders and head were still dusted with snow from her trip across the courtyard. "Your grace," she began with a perfunctory bow, but straightening quickly, offering her queen the folded letter in her gloved hand. Margaery snatched it from her, tearing it open and reading the telegram with hungry eyes as she vaguely heard Brienne's words. "Word from ... battle at Crossroads Town ... significant losses at the bridge, but ... the Usurper was captured." Instead, she focused on the quick lettering of the clerk who had decoded the radio message.  
 _  
My love. We beat the Bastard. Arya is safe. Marching to King's Landing to meet her and Theon. Sounds like he made a mess of the place. I'm quite well and safe, and hope you are the same. Love you. Robb._

\- - - - -

It was some time before she was coherent enough to hear the rest of Brienne's report. "... the enemy had more gunpowder weapons than expected, including some kind of rocket-arrow launcher," the tall woman continued as Margaery sat, sipping at an Arbor red that reminded her of her old home. "But a flanking attack led by King Robb and the arrival of one of Lord Karstark's ... balloon craft ... finished the battle, and the bastard Joffrey was captured, along with most of the surviving lords and officers."

"Marvelous," sighed Margaery. "At last this distressing war will come to a close."

"There is still Stannis, your grace," reminded Brienne, clearly still intent that the Baratheon and his witch should pay for murdering 'King' Renly. "And the Vale still hasn't chosen a side ... not to mention the Iron Islanders -"

"Yes, yes, but the Lannisters are either dead, cowed or fled," insisted the queen, placing her wine glass down on the table. "The rest will fall into line once we've demonstrated that we can shatter any army or fortress that resists us. No, Brienne, it's simply a matter of time. Now, is there any word of young Brandon?" an edge of genuine concern entered her voice.

Brienne frowned. "We have patrols scouring the roads and fields between here and Last Hearth, while ravens and telegraphs have been sent to all of the clans of the hills to do the same. We have also sent word to Castle Black, in case Bran and Qyburn make it that far: an old man, a giant, a boy and a direwolf should not be hard to find, but there is no word as yet." She paused. "Lady Caitlyn ... is distraught."

"Of _course_ she is: so many of her children are still missing or in danger," agreed Margaery. She tapped her fingertips on the heavy oak table, her lovely eyes narrowing in thought. "Please send word to my goodmother, asking her to dine with me tonight: we must celebrate the King's victory over the Usurper, and comfort her in regards to Bran. Have the kitchen begin preparation for a proper celebratory feast tomorrow, but let's not let lady Caitlyn know yet: we wouldn't want to seem disrespectful to her concern for Bran. I doubt she will be in the mood for celebration, but hopefully the news of Arya's rescue will bolster her spirits." She reached over and took a scrap of paper, and quickly penned a few words on it. "And also, if you will, take this down to the telegraph office, and have it sent top priority, on my autherisation."

Brienne nodded, took the message, and left the room, her long legs covering the distance to the door in moments. Margaery remained seated, glancing at her pile of books, but sighing, and returning to her glass, inhaling the familiar fragrance of the wine. Strange, it had smelled better before.

Shaking that off, her mind focused on the short message she had written.

 _ **May the gods bring swift victory, and may you return safely home. Your family misses you. Your wife misses you. Margaery.**_

 _\- - - - -_  
 **Amarda Honn**

  
That night still stuck in her mind. Even with that bratty Dornish princess, just to know how Theon cared for her... How he showed it...

"Amarda?"

Was he safe? She didn't know. She had worried over him before, no doubt. Many times. It felt so different now. Amarda was aware it was probably just the biochemical changes in her body from... From sexual contact with someone. She'd read that book herself! Yet she could not get her mind away from it...

"Amarda?"

His last message had said he was safe, and he wanted to see her. He dearly missed her. She missed him too, so much. Even with the consequences of what might happen, she wanted to kiss him again, touch him again. Know he was safe for sure. So much could change so quickly, and the news would take so long to get to her...

"AMARDA!"

Amarda shook her head free of distraction, and adjusted her glasses. She locked her gaze onto Dan Greenstone, Theon's other assistant, who had been recounting all that had gone on since her absence in his office in the Benjen Stark building. She cleared her throat, and sat up primly in her chair.

"Of course... Where were we?"

"The petitions from the Mining Unions, the Factory Alliance, and the Silver Bank of the North Business Associations on their Westerland projects," Dan reminded her, a bit peeved. Amarda nodded, and her eyes dashed over her notes. Despite being in a bit of a daydream, she had been keeping up.

"Yes... Frankly, the huge size of all these proposals is more than a little daunting," Amarda said. "That they proposed them all at the same time, together, is suspicious to say the least."

Dan nodded, looking a bit less tense. "True, but given the telegraph lines that have been set up across the North, that isn't much of a shock," he said. "All those old friends can now just speak to one another with a few taps of the... The..."

"Knob," Amarda reminded him. She shook her head. "King Robb was of the opinion that we should not appear to be conquerers: That rather defeats the purpose of the Commonwealth."

"True, but with troops already returning home," Dan pointed out, "and all these immigrants, we're flush with labor. Too much labor, if we're going to be honest. Getting them working down south as soon as we can is the easiest way to get things back to normal... Well, as normal as we can measure these things."

Dan sorted through a few papers, grumbling as he found a particular document. "Besides," he continued, "a few projects in the Reach have already been approved, not to mention the Vale, the Riverlands-"

"We weren't fighting those kingdoms though," Amarda pointed out. "And we do need to think long term."

"You sound so much like Theon," Dan groused. Amarda shrugged.

"Well, he does often know what he's doing..."

"Does he? Since when? Since you..." Dan asked flatly, before cutting himself off. Amarda narrowed her eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Dan stuttered, and looked back down at his papers. Amarda glared.

"What is that supposed to mean, Dan Greenstone?"

"I... I didn't..."

"Do you mean to insinuate that I am Lord Theon's mistress?" Amarda asked, in a cold and deadly tone. "That I am compromised in any way?"

"I..." Dan grimaced. "No," he managed through gritted teeth.

"Because it sounded like you were doing that," Amarda hissed. "It sounded like it." She stood up and marched over to Dan, glaring down at him. "Afraid for your position already then? I would be: After _losing_ Lord Bran-"

"I didn't - I didn't lose Lord Bran!" Dan protested. "How was I to know what he was going to do?! I - I'm an accountant! I do business! I don't-!"

"No, you don't," Amarda growled. "You keep the books and you keep things _running._ It is not _your place_ to...!"

She caught a cruel look in the glass of the window. She glanced up, wildly expecting some pushy, arrogant noble lady to be there.

There wasn't though: There was just her.

She stared at the glass, for a very long moment. She looked back at Dan, who was still cowering. Amarda closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

"... I apologize," Amarda said softly. "Dan, I... I am sorry."

Dan looked up at Amarda, confused. He frowned back, working his jaw.

"I... Thanks," he said. "Me too."

Amarda looked aside, gripping her clipboard tightly. "... You are right that Theon is only mortal," she said finally. "And that we must make our own decisions, based on reason and logic." She sat down in her chair, and cleared her throat. "No matter our relationship to him."

Dan stared at her, uncomprehending. Amarda waited, pensive. Dan sighed, and let out a little smile.

"Yeah... I mean," Dan managed, "we're not a bunch of... Of nobles, just saying yay or nay however the Lord says to, right?"

"Of course," Amarda said with a nod. "Of course... Perish the thought."

She'd hated those snooty highborn all her life. Yet she'd been using their words. What would Theon say, if he saw her now? if he was even-

 _No,_ she thought furiously, _no._ _You are not some weak maiden, or some stupid highborn. Focus!_

They sat there, smoothly continuing the work. Sorting through papers, sending off documents for consideration, and working on the many, many requests. Amarda didn't look out the window for what seemed like hours, yet the outside seemed as bright as a sunrise. It took her a moment to realize the square in front of Winterfell's gates were filled with dancing people, waving torches and shooting off fireworks.

"What the...?" She checked the clock. It was eight at night. "What on Planetos is going on...?"

Dan rose, and walked out of the office. Amarda followed, and they saw it was deserted. They went down the stairs, finally, right out to the street proper. Now they could hear music booming, people singing, and see what seemed like the entire population of Wintertown out and about, celebrating.

"What... What's going on?" Dan asked. Amarda smiled wryly.

"I imagine," Amarda said, "that we have won the war."

"I... I suppose that's the most logical conclusion," Dan said with a nod.

"Well! Let us go see the Queen," Amarda said. "She'll probably need us... Or at the very least, have free food."

They'd also find out how Theon was. She didn't say that though.

"We can also find out how Theon's doing," Dan said for her. She blushed, but smiled. He smiled back.

"But hey... free food is good," Dan said with a nod, and the two made their way slowly through the celebration.

 **LXXVIII: Of Kings, Wolves and Ravens, Part 3**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, The Crownlands  
_  
 **Robb Stark  
\- - - - - -**

Robb had never before seen the walls of King's Landing in person: Always through photography, drawings, or the word of others. Even after the fire and the sieges, the walls of the mighty metropolis stood impressive in the late afternoon sunlight. The desolate plain surrounding the stinking city had a strange kind of beauty to it: The pockmarks of explosive mines were already home to blooming flowers and weeds that stubbornly lived in the face of man's efforts.

For Robb though, only Margaery could be a more beautiful sight than the red, white and gray standards of the North flying high over the city walls. The sight of hundreds of cheering people thronging the streets as he and his procession trotted down the King's Avenue. His men threw cans of dehydrated milk, vegetables, and biscuits to the crowds, and they in return received flowers and cheers and joyful music. Even amid burnt husks and ruins, they all cheered...

Yet in their eyes, Robb could not help but see something unpleasant. The same sight in so many, so many eyes down South.

He still smiled and waved. Gray Wind marched alongside him, as he walked with his horse alongside. Already, he could see Crannogmen leaping from rooftop to rooftop along their journey, as his Breachers marched with Vipers held to their shoulders: All presenting their best face, but all loaded.

This was a dangerous city, after all. It was where his father had died. It was where his sisters were held. It was where the war began, in the coupling of two siblings while a king slept in a drunken stupor.

It was also where it would end... All of it.

The band played a marching song, one of Robb's favorites: "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." It made him think of home, think of family... Think of Margaery.

They approached the gates of the Red Keep: Or rather, what was left of them. While the great walls still held, the great gates made of oak and timber were flung wide open. Judging from the throngs of people waiting to greet them, they had been left open for quite some time.

Grey Wind sniffed, and scanned the crowd. He was at ease, but on guard. That reassured Robb immensely.

They passed through the gates, and into a realm of devastation. The famous gardens of the great Keep had been laid waste: Burned or plundered by the starving citizens. Maegor's Stronghold was a still smoldering ruin, like a brick stove burning with fresh meat. The towers of the rest of the castle were in ill repair: He could recognize that cannon fire had struck them. He wondered if that would show up in any of his captain's reports, to cross reference it all.

So much to file away. So much to write. So much to do... Yet...

Isolated from the crowds by Breachers, standing near a fountain that greeted visitors to the Red Keep, stood a small, familiar group. One that gave Robb's tired face a real reason to smile. Especially when a young woman, dressed in slightly over-sized Navy trousers and shirt, ran up to him with a beautiful smile.

"ROBB!" Arya cried, ignoring all decorum and just hugging her big brother. Robb captured her in his embrace, a great weight fading away as he held his beloved little sister. The cheers of the crowds faded away, as he just enjoyed it.

"Hello Arya... Sorry I'm late," he said softly. He pulled back, just enough to see her wipe her tears from her eyes. He smiled back, letting his own tears fall. "But I found someone... Who missed you."

Arya looked to Gray Wind, who huffed softly. Emerging from a carriage in the great army, a gray wolf loped slowly up to Arya. The officers of the Army parted, and when Arya caught sight of the wolf... She beamed broadly.

"NYMERIA!" She embraced her wolf, who licked and nuzzled her back affectionately. Robb watched his sister's reunion with her beloved companion, and rubbed Gray Wind's head in equal care. His companion licked him back, equally composed but equally happy.

"Robb!" And then his brother in all but blood hugged him, and Robb hugged him back. The King in the North laughed, and ruffled Theon's hair happily. Robb grinned at him, and Theon grinned back.

"You made quite a mess of things," Robb observed. Theon smirked and shrugged.

"Hey, you told me to," he said. "What am I if not loyal to my king?"

"Would I see any difference?" Robb joked, and both laughed. It felt good to laugh, for both of them. Theon looked back at the entourage, all waiting on them. He looked back at Robb, and grimaced thoughtfully.

"So... Which part of the unpleasant business do you want to get to first?" He asked bluntly. Robb appreciated bluntness. He looked to the square where his father had been beheaded... And took a deep breath.

"... I think the men deserve to see what they've accomplished first," Robb said. Theon nodded, and squeezed Robb's shoulder.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah... I thought you might."

"Is it ready then?" Robb asked. Theon nodded.

"We're ready."

Robb nodded, and let Theon go. The Boomsquid turned and headed up for the Great Hall with his King alongside, the servants and attendants and officers following. Robb gestured to some men, and they retrieved a coffin-shaped package from one of the carriages to carry with them.

It was a long climb, but Robb kept silent. He just allowed Theon to talk. It was... Familiar, comforting. It took him further away from where he'd been. It kept him where he was.

"... Also... The scar's kind of cool," Theon said, pointing to the scratch across Robb's eyelid. The genius winced. "Geez... That was close."

"Imagine how I felt," Robb said dryly.

"Gonna wear an eyepatch?" Theon asked. Robb shrugged.

"Maybe... I thought you were the pirate scum around here?"

Theon snickered. "Hey, anyone can look awesome with an eyepatch... If they can, I mean."

"Scientific as always," Robb said dryly.

"Long couple of days, give me a break," Theon said. The guards reached the Main Hall's doors first, and pushed them open. Robb and Theon walked in, side by side, the ancient hall echoing with their footsteps.

Ahead, bathed in the light of the afternoon through the windows, stood the Iron Throne. Even pictures had not done it justice: It was a gigantic, spiny thing, forged to look like it was growing out of the very stonework itself. Robb had to admit, in some small way, that even now he felt intimidated by this throne. Every part of the room was shaped to make you feel small as you approached it, needing to bend down to a monarch sitting on the legacy of his forebears.

Even now... Robb felt trepidation as he walked up the steps, standing right in front of the Iron Throne. He looked down upon the seat. Upon the blades. Upon the dark stains, ancient blood of kings and would be kings all over the metal. He clenched his fists, staring into it. This dark, ancient thing. This twisted prize for ambition, blood, murder and chaos.

"... Huh," Theon grunted. Robb, shaken out of his reverie, looked over at the Genius. Theon was rubbing his chin, examining the Iron Throne.

"What?" Robb asked. Theon glanced at his brother, and shrugged.

"Just... Thought it would be... Ya know... Bigger," he said.

Robb stared at Theon in disbelief. He glanced back at the Iron Throne. He could see, now, imperfections in the joining of the swords. The poorly designed seat. The warped metalwork and flaws, not just in the swords but in the metal used to meld it all together.

He reached out, touched it... And found nothing but ancient iron under his fingertips.

Robb Stark... Laughed softly, as he stroked the metal. He felt Theon's stare, and pulled his hand back.

"Sorry, just... I thought it'd be bigger too," Robb said. "But when you look at it like this... It kind of..." He looked at Theon, grasping for the right words. The genius smiled.

"Loses some of the magic?" He asked. Robb nodded. "True. On the other hand, it's probably for the best that this thing loses that. How else are we going to progress?"

Robb nodded slowly. He examined the throne, a bit longer.

 _King of the Seven Kingdoms... Lord of all Westeros... With the power of fire and thunder, just like the Targaryans of old..._

Robb turned, and slowly, so slowly, sat down. It was hard and uncomfortable, and he had to sit straight. Alert, like he was on his horse. He looked over the hall, into the eyes of his subjects... His friends... His citizens. He sat for a long moment, as Gray Wind watched him.

"... So..." Theon began, "what do you want to do with it, Robb?"

Robb gripped the armrests of the throne, lost in thought. He looked at Gray Wind, and his wolf looked back. Robb sighed, and a small smile emerged on his face. He turned to one of his soldiers.

"You have a camera?" He asked. The soldier quickly sent for a photographer. It took some time, but he arrived: With a few reporters in tow, Eddard Shorthand among them. That did Robb's heart some good, seeing the honest reporter. Robb looked down on them, and wiped his chin. His people were looking up at him, expectant. Even worried.

"Rogaz, Yunny, open it up," Robb commanded. The two soldiers who had been diligently carrying the coffin set it down, and opened it up. They pulled out a bound, gagged, but very much alive Joffrey Waters, who was screaming himself red with muffled rage.

"Lords and gentleladies," he spoke, "I sit on the Iron Throne... Only for you to take a photo of me." He then smiled. "And after that? Anyone who wants to sit and get their picture taken in it? May do so."

"Then what, Your Grace?" Eddard Shorthand asked. Robb chuckled, his eyes on Joffrey.

"Then? Then, we're making this into a museum where anyone can sit in this thing for a few coppers," Robb declared, and much cheering ensued. A tintype camera went off, the flash making Robb blink his eyes clear. He shook his head, and rose from the throne. He walked down the steps, standing in front of the furious Joffrey.

"And you, Joffrey Waters, get to watch every moment," Robb stated, "after your trial." Robb nodded to his men. "Take him to the safehouse."

\- - - - - -  
 **Theon Greyjoy**

I watched the men carry the coffin away, many of the observers throwing bits of flotsam at it. A few children smacked the coffin, banging on it and taunting the captive former king. Then he was gone, out the doors.

"I was wondering why you had so many air holes in that coffin," I admitted. Robb sighed.

"Safest way to transport him," he said. "For him, and us..."

"And the other Lannisters?" I asked.

"They're more cooperative," Robb said with a nod. "And thankfully... Most are alive."

My thoughts went to the photos sent of Lancel Lannister, held in the field hospital: Unconscious, but alive.

Robb looked out at the crowd. "Not here."

I nodded. "Right." We left the throne, walking to the side doors and up the stairs. We reached the balcony, the steps of the guards faint behind us.

"Good," I said with a nod. We walked off, as word spread and photographers and soldiers and peasants alike all began to crowd into the great hall. They ascended the steps to the balcony overlooking the throne room, as rich and poor, young and old, men and women began to take their seat on the Iron Throne... And pose ridiculously for the camera. The two young men watched in silence... Until I broke it.

"You want to... Talk about what happened?" I asked.

Robb managed a small smile. "Beyond the official reports?"

"Yeah." I could tell he'd seen some real shit. Things he'd need to talk about.

The King in the North sighed. "... Later," he decided, "and with a lot of alcohol."

I nodded. "Fair enough."

"Sansa?" Robb asked.

"We're tracking her down," I said. "Varys has some contacts."

"We're trusting him?" Robb asked flatly.

"A little," I said, holding my forefinger and thumb apart. "Just a little. I mean, fact is that the Baratheons are all either gone or unsuitable for the throne. The Targaeryans are gone, the Lannisters are mostly gone, and you..."

"I don't want the throne," Robb said. I nodded.

"Yeah... Which is commendable," I said. He looked down at the throngs below. "Besides... We've got bigger problems up North. Things you need to attend to-"

"I can't go. Not yet," Robb said. I looked over at Robb.

"Huh?" Me, the so-called genius, asked intelligently. Robb sighed.

"Theon... What do you see when you look in those eyes down there?" Robb asked. I looked, frowning.

"People who no longer have to put up with misrule and tyranny?" I asked.

Hopefully, anyway.

"Yes. In part. But also people who don't know freedom," Robb said, gripping the railing of the balcony. "They welcomed me into the city, not because we were right; but because we brought food and didn't slaughter them. They don't grasp the enormity of what we did... What we sacrificed for them."

"Does anyone?" I countered. "Besides, you said you didn't _want_ the throne."

"I don't," Robb said, "but I think... Someone needs to take it. Something similar."

"We have the Commonwealth," I reminded Robb. "Trade, laws, connections-"

"None of which matters unless there is strength to ensure it goes where it is needed," Robb stated firmly. He shook his head. "I feel like I'm needed... Needed here."

"Maybe," I said, grasping his shoulder, "but maybe not in person. After all... The North needs their King too, don't they?"

Robb grimaced, and I could see the conflict within him. I sighed and gave him a smile.

"Look... When you look into the eyes of your men, what do you see?" I asked, echoing him. Robb frowned at me for that, then looked down at the Northern soldiers.

"... Respect," he decided on, "but also pride."

I nodded. "Yes. A pride and respect you _earned._ I think you can find someone to trust to help rebuild here. After all, you're not here to conquer. You're here to liberate. And the difference between them is that the liberator goes home..."

"But helps them stand on their own, after," Robb insisted. I sighed, and rubbed my chin.

"You're goddamned impossible, Your Grace," I said wryly. Robb laughed, hard. It was a good sound.

"This from the idiot who threw himself off Winterfell with a bag made of cloth when he was twelve!" Robb snickered. I laughed back.

"It would have worked if you didn't also want to fly, _Your Grace,"_ I reminded him.

"And then Jon just shook his head and called us idiots before getting Maester Luwin," Robb laughed. It was a good one, to just stand there and laugh and remember who we were. Beyond kings and geniuses. Robb beamed at me, and I beamed back.

"... I'm glad you can smile still," I said earnestly. Robb nodded back.

"Same... You did burn down two thirds the Red Keep," he said. I shrugged.

"Four-fifths. It's not an exact science. And besides: Most of the credit goes to Cersei Lannister..."

\- - - - - -

The next day, the radiomen had finished putting speakers up across King's Landing. Nevertheless, the largest crowd was where Robb was standing: A stage we'd set up right in the Red Keep's massive courtyard. Ramsay, Meera, Uncle Blackfish, Arya: Everyone seemed to be there. Oberyn was just grinning madly, as Tyrion stood next to him with a bit of a smirk himself.

He had told me in private that he found it hilarious: The 'invincible' Maegor's Holdfast had been brought low by a Lannister's idiocy and a Greyjoy's desperate gamble, where the greatest minds and warriors of the past had failed. Time and again. I had to admit, it was rather funny.

Robb looked at the gathered people, and back at me. I smiled and nodded. He looked back, and cleared his throat into the microphone. There was a bit of feedback, and some people winced and cried out in fear... But Robb spoke, and all eyes were on him in the hot, southern sun.

"Good morning. Three centuries ago, Aegon the Conqueror came to our shores with dragons and a small army. He conquered the seven kingdoms, and forged them into one. The proof of that sits behind me, in the Great Hall."

Robb narrowed his eyes, and growled.

"And for those three centuries, we have been subject to the whims of whoever sat on that ugly hunk of metal. The whole world had to hold its breath, time and time again, whenever someone new stepped up. Would they be good and wise? Would they be mad and terrible?"

Robb shook his head.

"In every case though... It didn't matter what we thought. It was our destiny, the weak to be ruled by the strong."

Robb looked around, and he shook his head.

"And yet... Here I stand, the King of the two 'weakest' kingdoms in Westeros, the Red Keep in ruins behind me and the 'King of the Seven Kingdoms and the Andals' held prisoner. Here I stand, with men and women dismissed as barbarians and tree worshippers by a number of the lords and knights of the Southern Kingdoms... Men and women who have triumphed over the best and most fearsome warriors in the world! Here I stand with a man who is my brother in all but blood, who came to Winterfell an underfed hostage. Yet he is the one who showed us the power in all of us!"

I waved to the crowd, and got a lot of cheering in return. Robb waited, and actually smiled.

"Over and over again, someone took this throne in recent memory and promised things would be different. They would be just, and wise, and rule well. And everyone who took this throne failed, out of madness, incompetence or because they were lying. We've been torn apart, again and again, just for that ugly, stinking relic. Everyone forced into a game of thrones over that seat."

Robb nodded. flipping to the next page of his speech.

"Well I have won the seat... And this time? The game is over. It's over because WE decided it's over!" Robb shouted. "The legacy of the Targaeryans is over," Robb declared. "This is no longer a realm for whoever manages to sit on that damned thing! This is Westeros! And we ARE FREE!"

The crowds, filled with elation, shock and awe, cheered wildly. The Northern soldiers cheered, our allies sang, and Ramsay took it as his time to begin playing with his band. I looked to Robb, and he looked back. We hugged tightly, and whooped along with the crowds.

It had been a long road. A road I had tried desperately to avoid. A war that had changed everything. I could only hope this victory did not cost us the real war coming.

Yet, surrounded by people from all over Westeros, yelling and cheering... I couldn't help but hope for the future.

What can I say? I'm an optimist.


	35. Omake: Captain Tarth, Winter is Coming 3

**OMAKE: Captain Tarth**

 _AC 300, Winterfell, The North  
_  
 **Brienne of Tarth  
** \- - - - - -

Her opponent was not quite as tall, but far more broad. He was well muscled under his armor, and the long coat he wore made his movements, even at this close a range, difficult to predict. He circled her like a wolf, eyeing her intensely for an opening. She stared back, similar intensity, watching his eyes.

Suddenly, he lunged forward with a feint towards her face. His other fist was heading for her stomach. She moved, brushing the feint aside as she smoothly stepped to the side and seized his forearm in her arms. He tried to pull back, but he'd thrown too much of his weight into the strike and with a sweep of her foot he was off his balance entirely. He slammed into the dirt of the courtyard, groaning loudly. Brienne stood up, and reflexively brushed her breastplate off. She looked up at the guards watching them, and nodded decisively.

"A feint only works if you avoid hinting at it, Cooper," she spoke authoritatively. She reached down to the downed guard, who gratefully took her arm as she pulled him up.

"What gave me away, Captain?" Cooper asked.

"The eyes," Brienne said. "You kept looking down. I knew it was something coming at me from below."

Cooper, a younger recruit, nodded with a downcast expression. "Yes my lady."

Brienne offered him a small smile. "Your speed, however, has improved," she said. Cooper looked a bit better. She looked up and around at her students, eyes narrowed. "But I demand improvement in all areas, not just one! Is that understood?"

"Yes Captain!" The men and women of the Guard stated crisply with smart salutes. Brienne nodded.

"Very well. Resume your training. At fourteen hundred hours, you will be allowed a rest. Not before!"

"Yes Captain!" The guards cried. They broke into pairs, and began to practice. Brienne banished her smile, seeking to only look approving. It was difficult though with the pride now flowing in her veins.

"Good afternoon, Captain," a gravelly voice spoke nearby. Brienne turned to see Maester Luwin walking up, a broad smile on his wizened face. Brienne nodded, and returned to watching the training.

"Good afternoon, Maester Luwin," Brienne said respectfully. The old maester slowly walked up alongside her, and leaned against a post. They watched the recruits in silence for a time, and Brienne began to wonder what the old man might wish of her.

"Oh, I have only come to ask how you are doing, Captain," Luwin said, and Brienne flushed. The old maester was extremely adept at reading emotions, no matter how far they were buried. "There is no need for apprehension."

Brienne frowned. "I see," she said simply. Luwin nodded to her.

"Indeed, there have been nothing but good reports of your tour as Captain of the Royal Guard," he said with a smile. "Especially given who you are replacing."

"I will admit, I expected more resistance," Brienne said softly. "Even in the South, Ser Rodrik was known for his courage. If his reputation had traveled so far already...?"

"He chose you," Luwin said with a nod. "He approved of you to take over." He smiled mischievously. "The fact you were able to knock him on his arse probably had something to do with it."

Brienne flushed, just a bit. She had expected jeers when she'd arrived in Winterfell, or at least harsh whispers. While the respect accorded Margaery was immense, she had believed it would only protect her so far.

Then, in the training yard, Ser Rodrik himself had approached her and asked for a sparring partner. She had eyed the yard warily. Expecting this to be a jape: A means of humiliating her. Even with the reassurances of the Manderlys at the Steel Wedding, she was not some yearling who trusted blindly. There were threats to her lady, her queen: And those threats were hers to deal with.

That said, she could really not refuse or risk insult to Ser Rodrik. Therefore, she accepted. They entered the sparring ring, both with dull blades. They were the new Northern standard: Straighter, lighter, and a bit shorter than regular arms swords in the South. They were a bit broader as well, and Ser Rodrik explained these blades were meant to be tools as well as weapons.

"That said," Ser Rodrik explained, tossing his own blade to his proper hand, "they are not to be underestimated."

Brienne practiced a bit with the blade, getting used to the balance. It was very well made, no doubt. And well balanced. More than that though, it was plain and unadorned: Fitting, she supposed, for the North's philosophy when it came to most of their technology.

Ser Rodrik struck then, probing strikes to determine her reactions. She slowed herself just a bit, letting him draw closer for real strikes. He did not disappoint: He lashed out with an elbow for her face after muscling her sword aside, but this was a tactic she was very familiar with. She spun away with precise steps, and thrust her blade back for his ribcage. He narrowly avoided this, and swung his blade for her feet. She jumped over the blows, thrusting for his belly. The old warrior parried her strike down and away, and strove to kick for her knee. She rose her shin to deflect, using the resulting step forward to swing and push him back. He pulled away, panting hard.

"Now that's good... But you can be a lot better, lassie," he said. Brienne narrowed her eyes. "Don't hold back! Fight as though your queen was at stake!"

With that, Ser Rodrik lunged, thrusting and feinting furiously. Brienne dodged and parried, avoiding his strikes with blade, foot and shoulder with deft footwork. She heard shouts, and thought for a moment they were jeers. Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped forward and back in a swift, single movement as he lunged. He overextended, and she took her opening, kicking his knee and sending him to the ground. She pointed her sword at the back of his neck, as he panted beneath her. She too was a bit short of breath, but controlled it as best she could.

Ser Rodrik's shoulders shook... And he looked up at her with a grin.

"Now that's more like it," he complimented. He extended his hand to hers, and Brienne warily took it. In the heat of battle, it had taken her a moment to understand the words being shouted... And another moment to realize they were not insults.

"Tarth! Tarth! Tarth!" The recruits and a few servants cheered. She flushed, but still pulled Rodrik up. The old castellan grinned, panting hard.

"So... Up for another round? Would love to figure out how you did that," he said. Brienne managed a small smile back.

"I would be glad to teach you, Lord Castellan," she said. Rodrik shook his head.

"No... Captain. Captain is my title now." He chuckled. "Don't make much sense to me, all these little changes... But I like it a bit more, lassie."

"As you wish, Captain Rodrik," she said, still unable to stop smiling.

It was clear, the more they fought, that while Ser Rodrik was formidable, Brienne was better. The Castellan-Er, Captain though, seemed to relish it. Even with his declining powers as a warrior, he was finding their spars enjoyable. Brienne too enjoyed them, even teaching others in the yard how to fight like she did. It was very unusual: The Knight and Squire practice in the North seemed to be almost gone, as units were more important than a single apprentice. Training and sharing this knowledge with others, young and old, highborn and lowborn... It was so strange.

Yet she could not deny the appeal.

"I am glad he has gone on to be a full time instructor," she said with a nod. "He is an able teacher. I am... I am honored to take his place."

"Mm? Take his place?" Luwin asked. "Or make your own?"

There was no malice in the maester's words, but still Brienne flushed. Luwin smiled.

"In either case... I am glad you are here," he said with a nod. "I know Margaery has struggled here. Knowing that her friend is thriving helps her thrive in turn."

"Thank you, Maester Luwin," Brienne said gratefully. She sighed. "I only wish I had succeeded in locating Lord Bran."

Luwin sighed, looking older and more tired than before. It was such a strange transformation, for a moment he seemed a different man. "Yes... Well. They are still out there. I do not think any of his party mean him harm..." He grimaced. "Even Qyburn..."

"But for what reason would they leave?" Brienne pressed. From what she had learned for herself, Lord Bran was a young but diligent lord who had carried out his duties as Robb's second perfectly. Why would he suddenly abandon everything?

"The reason... Is complex," Luwin said softly, and Brienne felt certain he was holding much back. "I fear it will only make sense in light of other developments..." He looked to the North, stone faced. "Developments I pray, to gods old and new, never come to pass."

Brienne looked to the North, following his gaze. There was nothing but the sky and smoke from factories. Even further in the distance, the dim outlines of mountains already covered in snow. The Winter was coming, as it always did... Yet despite her warm clothing, Brienne could not help a shiver down her spine.

 **Winter is Coming : Part III**

 _Dear Theon. I write to tell you of events most terrible…_

Dear Theon? _Really?_  
He tossed the sheet of paper off to the side and tried again.

 _Lord Greyjoy. I ..._

When had he _ever_ called Theon 'Lord Greyjoy?'  
Once again, the paper was tossed off to the side and Jon stopped himself from ruining another by stopping to consider his words and _think,_ before he finally put the pen to paper.

He had not spoken to Theon and Robb in well over a year now. He knew they had both been caught in the middle of a war as terrifying as his own had been, in its own way. So much had changed since he last he had seen them that still couldn't believe it. He had only skimmed the newspapers that had built up for him, but he had been hard pressed to miss the news about the war.  
Or to put aside his mild jealousy of his brother after he had seen the full paged picture printed in the Westeros Despoiler of Margaery Tyrell, his new wife...

Turning his attention back to his letter, Jon wondered again what he _could_ say to get their attention. Castle Black had one of the new mini-type machines that could dramatically increase the amount of words one could send via Raven, but there _were_ still limits.

How could he cover _everything_ that he had seen with so few words to use?

"Snow are you in here somewhere?" a voice broke into his musings he recognized.

"Over here Edd" he replied without looking up, thankful that it was his friend that had come looking for him and not another one of the children (really they were not much younger than he when he had arrived at the wall, but still children to his eyes) looking at him with unabashed awe. Ever since the word had gotten around about what they had seen and fought out there - and what _he_ specifically had accomplished, the younger trainees at Castle Black had been staring at him as if he was some kind of reincarnation of someone from the Age of Heroes.  
It had gotten uncomfortable enough that he had jumped at the excuse to slip away from the rest of the Stewards and Builders frantically working to prepare the Wildlings new temporary encampment on The Gift. Said excuse being when Maester Amon had asked him to prepare a personal message to Theon about this situation, noting the Night's Watch's claims would be probably taken far more seriously if they came alongside personal messages directly from him to Theon 'The Genius' Greyjoy.

Only to then realize that he didn't even know where to start.

Presently the footsteps of the other grew louder and he came around the bookshelves to the darker parts of the pack of the library where Jon had claimed an ill used desk for his use, well out of sight of the usual spaces occupied. On the floor on an ancient blanket, a sleeping Ghost briefly opened one eye, noted it was just Edd and promptly went back to sleep, perfectly warm and content.

But that was Ghost through and through. When it was time to eat, he ate. When it was time to sleep, he slept. When it was time to kill, he killed. Anything else was just Southern time wasting so it didn't bother.

Now, more than ever, Jon envied his Dire Wolfs simple outlook on life.

"So, this is where you've been hiding eh?" Edd noted, shifting a pile of books and cringing at the cloud of dust this stirred up, before he managed to dig out a somewhat rickety stool to sit on next to him.

"Well between Ser Alliser glaring at me more than ever and the kids looking like they wanted to have their pictures taken with me, I thought it would be better to go away for a while" he explained putting down his 'pen' and again silently marveling at the elegance of the device. Theon had been _obsessed_ with perfecting the tool, seemingly taking even the existence of normal quills as some kind of mortal personal insult against him.  
But then with the sheer amount of writing Theon did, it probably wasn't surprising he wanted something a little more robust.  
"How are the brothers in the infirmary?"

"Complaining loudly that they are tired of being cooped up waiting for their 'minor injuries' to heal, while secretly enjoying the seven hell out of the soft beds, good food and heated rooms" Edd snorted. "The real question is why _you're_ not down with them? You can write letters for the Maester to shrink from there you know? Frankly it's a miracle from the Gods that you're _not_ dead".

"Then it would be blasphemous to suggest that I'm going to die now, wouldn't it be?" Jon quipped with a slightly wry smile, only causing the other to lean back with a groan and shake his head at the pun, so Jon sighed and tried to be a little serious. "Besides I'm not doing any heavy work, just trying to help out keeping things organized. And this" he tapped the paper on the desk, "is probably the most important thing I can do to help. If I can figure out _what_ to say" he added, shaking his head. "How in the hells Edd, do I in a page of writing try to explain everything we saw? The threat of what's coming for all of us? To people who have not seen what we've seen?"

"Theon Greyjoy - he's not an idiot is he?" Edd asked and Jon raised an eyebrow.

"An idiot? Ah, that is ... _not_ a word I would apply to Theon, no" Jon managed to reply to _that_ question with a straight face. _At least excluding when Robb and I kept seeing him turn away countless attractive women making passes at him..._

"Then just tell him the facts straight up and don't bother with any of this minstrel crap" Edd waved at his latest effort. "If he's as smart as you say he is, he'll get the message. If he's not, then we're fucking wasting our time with him. Anyway" the other shrugged, "dinner is going to be served in half an hour, thought you'd want to know".

"Thanks Edd" Jon nodded and the other in turn nodded back before he left. Jon waited for him to leave, then turned back to the paper - and started to write as his memory flowed back to the events of the last week...

Jon Snow often found himself thinking about the Wildlings.

On the face of it, that was not very surprising given that he and the surviving Brothers of the Great Ranging were fleeing for their lives in the company of a bloody large group of said Wildlings. Or 'free folk' as they preferred to be called. But beyond the obvious questions such as 'can we trust them?', Jon found his curiosity growing about them as a people and culture as, bit by bit, he learned new things about them.

There was much to admire about them, _he_ at least would admit that to himself. The more time he spent with them the more he dismissed the viewpoint in The North that they were little more than animals scratching a living in the frozen lands beyond The Wall. As _he_ saw it, these people had survived for thousands of years since the Wall had been raised, indifferent to the rest of Westeros. Realms and Kingdoms had risen and fallen, invaders had crossed the seas to stamp their mark on the continent … but these people had simply kept living lives little different to those of the original First Men so long ago, refusing to be wiped out no matter the harsh conditions year in and year out. And, if nothing else, he supposed they deserved to be acknowledged for that. The Targaryens, by contrast, for all their vaunted power had been all but wiped out in less than three centuries to the point that until he had discovered that Maester Aemon _was_ a Targaryan, he had never thought he would ever lay his eyes on one of the Dragon Blood.

However, _most_ days his admiration for their ability to survive was greatly outweighed by his desire to _scream at them for being a bunch of stubborn cunts who refused to work together!_

Really, this 'army' was just several dozen smaller groups who _just-so_ _happened_ to moving in the same direction at the same time, choosing _of their own free will_ the same place to stop and sleep each night, then _again_ choosing to all move in the same direction to move the next day.  
At least as far too many of the Elders saw it.  
There was little to no loyalty to the rest of the group and indeed, Jon had seen fights break out as accusations were flung around of theft or even over petty things like who got the 'best' ground at a night's campsite. All the traditions that had kept their people alive for so many generations and kept the strongest alive were now working _against_ them - and the damn fools refused to admit it!

Jon recalled years back, listening as Theon (again) challenged the 'conventional thinking' of the Maesters on yet _another_ subject. This time, the Greyjoy had been contending that the main reason the Wildlings were still so primitive was less about resources or the environment they lived in, but the culture they had evolved into. That they were 'free' and valued that 'freedom' above _anything_ else … and without a willingness to give up some of that freedom for collective rules, order and structures, they had no hope of _ever_ being able to advance. That while south of The Wall in a similar environment the rest of the First Men had developed advanced agriculture, technology, laws and political systems that had been the foundation of their civilizations, North of it the 'Free Folk' were happy to raid, killed and steal from each other to survive, under a concept he had called 'Survival of the Fittest'. A process that kept the strongest of them alive in the harsh conditions … at the price of stagnation. Outside of rare localized groups like the Thens anyway.

Now, with the Wildlings, Jon found himself -as ever- unsurprised to find that Theon had been quite correct in his assertions. But that was something he had gotten used to over the years.

Most of the Wildlings, even now, remained stubbornly loyal to their tribal groups above all else. Frozen, as it were, in the 'zero-sum' game that defined their lives where the _only_ way for someone to improve their situation was at the cost of someone else around them. Cooperation for the common good was almost unheard of - and the Night's Watch giving up their food to be shared and horses to be used as pack animals; working to keep their enemies alive rather than demanding something of equal favor in return had been extremely confusing to many of the tribal elders. But none dared question it. For after seeing what they had done to the Wights in the night battle, wielding fire and thunder like the Gods of old, the Wildlings were even more convinced that the 'crows' and The Wall offered them a genuine chance of survival and The Others take anyone who fell behind!

Not all of them were so short sighted mind; people like Tormund and Ygritte had quite quickly come to work with the Black Brothers and grasp that they were doing what they did because there was a common enemy entirely beyond any old grudges between Crow and Free Folk. And that the Free Folk themselves needed to work together, or they would die together - it was just that simple. And Jon supposed their flexibility explained why they were some of Mance's closest associates - a man whose accomplishment of banding the Wildlings together looked ever more impressive to him with each day that passed.  
But it was a day to day struggle, with so much energy _wasted_ on dealing with friction between people that Jon occasionally _hoped_ the White Walkers would put in a showing just to remind the idiots who the _real_ enemy was.

In the very near future, Jon would _deeply_ come to regret temping that ancient Ghis God 'Murphy' Theon claimed delighted in taking such foolish idle wishes and cruelly turning them upon unsuspecting mortals for its twisted enjoyment...

Focusing his attention back on the here-and-now, Jon and two dozen Rangers worked their way through a patch of thick brush in the haunted forest, accompanied by twice that many Wildlings. They were moving quickly as they dared, carrying only their weapons and few supplies. In the lead were some of the best scouts the Wildlings had who, as the Halfhand had once told him, knew this country better than any Ranger. Their pace was quick almost to the point of being brutal - but no-one dared to complain as they moved in pursuit of their quarry.

Said quarry was a group of perhaps three hundred Hornfoots. Wildlings from their army who had been without question the _most_ annoying pricks in the camp. Thanks to the chaos of the disaster at the Fist of the First Men, this group had been separated from the bulk of their Clan and been swept up into _this_ group, with few supplies, no real leadership and few fighting men as the stampede fled the attacking Wights. Thus, their position in the strength obsessed Wildlings was precarious and fights had broken out more than once as other Wildlings had tried to move in and 'split the spoils'. Giantsbane had -mostly- put a stop to with a few pointed (bloody) examples, but for their part, the Hornfoots had been agitating to leave the group and go find 'their own people'. But lacking anything like the supplies they would need to go searching, they had been carried along by the group for now. Unwillingly and suspicious of everyone.

So, it wasn't _that_ surprising that one morning everyone had woken up to find that they had vanished.

Somehow, no-one on watch had noticed _four hundred people_ leaving several hours before dawn. But, to be fair, no-one -including him- had thought anyone would be crazy enough to _try_ and flee beyond the watchfires during the night, given what they all knew was out there. Yet, come sun-up, it had become clear that their part of the camp was abandoned and the part of the perimeter they had been supposed to watch was unguarded. And it had not taken very long to figure out where they were going, what with the tracks left by four hundred people

Crasters Keep.

The Night's Watch had, on their way out from The Wall, stashed away a huge amount of supplies at the keep. Paying Craster for the privilege with a cut of the goods. It had become common knowledge through the army that his keep was their destination and the supplies were the reason why, that they should be _just_ enough to get the whole army to The Wall before running out of food when added to their own stocks. But it was clear that the Hornfoots had other ideas; they were on their way to take them to make themselves stronger, in the 'best' traditions of the Wildlings. Split among four hundred people, it was probably just about enough for them to try and make their way to Hardhome (where they seemed convinced they would find their kin for some reason) and if it left hundreds of other Wildlings to starve to death?

Well, that was just survival of the fittest.

Suffice to say there were a lot of very hungry, very _angry_ Willings this morning when the news broke. And the danger of a chaotic stampede for the critical supplies in response was very real. To deal with it, the Lord Commander and Giantsbane had quickly come up with the idea of sending a fast force ahead to try and cut them off. To his complete lack of surprise, Ygritte had declared herself the leader of the Wildlings on this mission almost the second the Lord Commander had assigned _him_ to lead the Ranger team, claiming that she knew of a much faster route that -presuming the Crows could keep up of course- would get them there ahead of the Hornfoots. While the rest of the army followed the Hornfoots down the more well known route through the Forest they would be forced to take, what with the young and old coming along.

Jon had been somewhat astonished to be appointed at that given that he was the Steward of the Lord Commander, not a Ranger ... but he had learned the hard way _not_ to question the orders he was given from Mormont. None of the Rangers, thankfully, seemed at all perturbed by his command over them as he had been worried about-

"Come on Jon Snow, you're falling behind" a sing-song voice broke into his thoughts and Jon tried not to sigh as he turned to glare up the frozen creek the party were using like a road through the dense foliage, spotting the red head smirking at him from a dozen meters away. "If your Crows are getting tired I'll ask my people to slow down for you!".

There was the expected snickering from the Wildlings at that of course and Jon almost on reflex rolled his eyes at the other, but picked up the pace a little anyway at the challenge. Ygritte was confident that she could get them to Craster's keep before the Hornfoots, who were not as familiar with this territory. And despite the thick terrain she was leading them through, she _did_ seem to be uncannily keeping them on course for the keep at a quite punishing pace, with Jon surreptitiously checking his compass periodically to confirm they _were_ on the right path. It was a much more dangerous path without question with more than a few close calls and no time to set up things like safety lines, but if they didn't reach the supplies first, the Wildling army would probably fall into chaos and start butchering itself.

So they pressed on.

"How much further" Jon asked as he moved up beside the redhead.

"Just over that hill" she nodded ahead - and Jon couldn't help but notice she didn't even sound slightly winded while many of his brothers and rest of the free folk were breathing heavily - "and we'll be mostly East of that daughter-fuckers place. Then straight down into the valley and up to the Keep. On a clear day, you might even see the keep from up there".

Jon grunted an agreement, glancing up at the ridge line and low cloud, knowing the odds of seeing _anything_ on a day like this were low. But it was worth a look at least.

"We'll stop for a few minutes up on the ridge, see if we can catch sight of the Hornfoots" he decided - _and conveniently catch our breath_ he didn't say, but the slight smirk from the other at that clearly said that _she_ knew he was thinking it.

"It's too bad we don't have more time" she said instead, looking almost coy. "There is a hot spring just down the from here, inside a cave…"

Jon fought back the urge to groan. The damn woman's interest in him was _already_ leading to a great deal of -mostly good natured- mockery from his Brothers … and hostility from one or two Wildlings like that Warg Orell. He had done his best to reject her advances … but annoyingly _that_ had only seemed to _encourage_ her!  
He really wished he had paid more attention to _how_ Theon avoided women trying to throw themselves at him rather than endlessly mocking the man alongside Robb...

"We'll have time for hot baths later, supplies first" he tried to sound stern and jerking his head towards the ridge in front of them. "Now, we climb".

"Yes my Lord Commander _Sir_ " she mockingly bowed to him, gaining another snickering from the Wildlings - and annoyingly, several of the Rangers too- before she spun around. "Try to keep up this time?" she added and with that, the woman started to scamper up the side of the hill like a squirrel, barely disturbing even a hint of snow.

Ghost, who had annoyingly taken quite a liking to her and vice versa, unapologetically bounded after her up the hill without the slightest hint of either hesitation or concern at that point. And Fighting back a retort and glaring at his treacherous Dire Wolf, Jon set his teeth and followed her up the narrow trail.

It was a hard climb but they all made it up, finding themselves on the edge of a thin wind-swept ridge that looked down into the valley inside which Craster's keep was situated. Jon pulled out his Northern Telescope and swept it around …

"Nothing" he simply said, putting his Northern Farseer back after a moment. The valley ahead of them was covered in mist and the low cloud above was thick enough to block enough sunlight to cover the world in an eerie sort of twilight. Crasters was at the very southern end of this valley, with a pass at the northern end through which the Hornfoots would be moving through. If they moved quickly, they could get to Crasters first and with their presence make it clear the Hornfoots could rejoin them, or die. Although privately Jon didn't give them good odds for survival if they _were_ forced back with the other Wildlings, but they had made their choice.  
"We need to keep moving" he declared and started forward. And with that the group was in motion again, moving at a fast sort of walk that ate up ground without tiring people out too much.

The mist thickened as they descended down the long slope and while it was good to get out of the howling wind whipping the top of the ridge, with thin trees slowly giving way to thicker and heavier trees the deeper they went, Jon couldn't help but feel … colder the deeper they went into the increasingly dim light.  
It wasn't unusual in the haunted forest to have these conditions - aye, some days on their March North had been like this all day, even at mid-sun.  
But something … wasn't right. And everyone else seemed to sense it too.  
The previously easy and determined air around the group suddenly seemed to grow much more wary and on edge as the world closed in around them - forcing their group to close up somewhat. There was no _obvious_ threat - and they could still easy see several hundred meters even in the dim light … but there was _something_ making Jon feel uneasy.

Then again, perhaps he was overthinking this. Perhaps the unease was entirely on their party because they were about to have to kill hundreds of mostly women and younger children. Whose only crime was wanting to survive and find their kin.

In that case, perhaps it was fitting the sun would be hidden, for dark deeds needed to take place _in_ the dark.

Still, aside from startling some rabbits and other small animals in their path, they finally reached the floor of the valley, midway between the entrance at the North and Crasters Keep in the South. A grove of weirwood trees was here that he recalled passing on the way North, their immense branches darkening the sky that much more. A number of free standing stones seemed to spiral out from the trees, although several had been knocked over or were missing from the pattern. He idly wondered what ancient hands had set up these stones. The Children? The First Men? Then dismissed the thought from his mind.

"Alright" Jon said -and tried not to wince at the way people seemed to jump slightly at him breaking the silence. "Spread out, let's see if there's any trace of them coming through here yet".

Checking the vague trail through the valley only took a few minutes as it became clear that several hundred people had _not_ come through here today. It was the first bit of good news today and Jon felt his mood lift a little as they regrouped. Now, if they could get to the Keep fortify themselves at the supplies quickly enough...

"From the North" another Wildling suddenly spoke up, his voice a low rumble as he sniffed the air, upwind of them, brandishing a rather impressive looking axe in one hand and a shield in the other. "They come!"

At that, _everyone_ turned to face North, the sound of weapons being readied filling the air for a second. Ghost growled low a moment later and while Jon could not smell anything … he _heard_ something. The wind picked up for a second … then dropped back off and in a moment of silence he heard a faint, but distinct, sound of a _lot_ of people moving towards them.

"No, they're not coming. They're already _here_ " he cursed, quickly looking around as he absently un-slung his rifle and tried not to think about the fact that he had exactly five rounds left for it. His plan _had_ been to resupply from the ammo stores that had been left at Crasters, but they'd have to fight with what they had.

Hopefully they could avoid bloodshed altogether … but if it came down to it….

Shrugging off his backpack and letting it fall to the ground, Jon loosed Longsword in its scabard and unclipped the strap over the one revolver that still had any bullets.  
"Alright. We hold them here and let's hope they won't be idiots about this. Night's Watch, with me, skirmish line now - and keep it quiet!".

With those orders, the Rangers moved into position with him, dumping their own field packs and moving to crouch behind the vague spiral of stones arcing out from the weirwood grove. Less for cover and more because they provided useful positions to stabilize their rifles on to make every shot count. Jon himself unlatched the bi-pod under his rifle and set himself, the usual pre-battle energy starting to roll through him even as he desperately hoped to avoid a fight, carefully laying out his few remaining cartridges along the stone.

The Wildlings however looked almost _eager_ for a fight, furiously angry with this attempt to betray the largest group it seemed - or perhaps these Wildlings just hated Hornfoots, Jon gave up trying to determine deeper motives. They looked ready to fight and that was all that mattered right now.  
Ygritte, rather than forming up with one of the Wildling groups bunching up on their flanks moved to kneel next to him in the cover of her own stone.

"Do you think they'll stop?" Jon asked quietly as everyone settled into wait, the faint sounds of a large group of people on the march slowly becoming louder from the mist.

"The fuckers better if they don't want to die" she snorted, turning to look at him somewhat intently. "Are you sure you're ready for this Jon Snow?" she asked.

Jon considered the question. She was asking him the same question he had been asking himself. Was he ready to kill women and children? Slaughter them all if they refused to listen and charged them with weapons ready?  
And he found the same answer once again - and hated himself for it.  
If they didn't stop, they had to _be_ stopped, or many more people would probably die - and any chance of keeping their army from ripping itself to pieces would probably be lost.

It was that simple.

"Stand ready" Jon called out as the vague sense of movement in the treeline started to crystallize into indistinct, but clearly human shaped figures. "Ygritte?"

Standing up, the Wildling woman bellowed with an impressive voice, yelling out the names of several of the Hornfoot leaders and demanding that they stop their tribe and come forth alone to talk.  
Well more or less, there was of course a great deal of profanity and cursing included that Jon supposed was to be expected…

And she got no reaction. At all.

Jon's eyes narrowed as the incoming Hornfoots simply kept closing in, a slowly rising feeling that something was very wrong coming to his mind.  
The Hornfoots _should_ have stopped in surprise at their unexpected presence in their way. Or yelled back at them. Or screamed a war cry and charged. Or broken up in pandemonium, scattering in every direction in the hope of eluding them and getting to the keep anyway.

Or _something_. Anything!

But they just kept moving forward.

 _Perhaps … they hadn't hurt through this damn mist? Or the wind was still blowing over there..._

Fortunately, there was now a universal way to convey a message of 'stop or we'll kill you' even _this_ far North of The Wall, at a distance.

"Edd, warning shot above their heads" Jon ordered and obediently, his friend carefully aimed his Ionith repeater, fired-

The bark of the shot caused several of the Wildlings around him to jump and a loud _zing_ to come back from downrange as the bullet hit a tree and ricocheted away, the impact sending a brief downfall of snow over the heads of the people walking towards them …

And once again, the group rapidly becoming visible as they closed in didn't even flinch.

A sudden horrified certainty occurred to him at that and Jon raised his rifle, snapping the scope into play as they got closer still for a close look-

Their eyes were blue _. All of them._

"Wights ... wights! Fire fire _fire!_ " Jon yelled and to his relief, the Rangers did so with alacrity, dropping a dozen or more of the figures to the ground with a volley of thunder. To his sick horror as they became clear through the mist, Jon recognized some of them as the Hornfoots they had been chasing - meaning that somewhere between here and the incoming army the ancient enemy had a presence, but he pushed that thought to the side to focus on their own perilous situation. The corpses moved more quickly and smoothly than those at the night battle had, despite the gruesome damage he could see to more than a few that suggested their deaths had not been either quick or pleasant. Setting himself, he let his crosshairs settle onto one shape moving faster and bounding towards them even as others dropped around her - and a ball of ice settled into his stomach as the face came into focus.

It was a young woman of perhaps ten and five.  
He remembered the face because that _cunt_ Rast had been trying to coerce her into sleeping with him in exchange for some of his food - which given her desperate hunger, was coin she could not refuse. Sam had stumbled onto the man who had promptly threatened to gut him and feed him to any river cannibals around if he opened his mouth … entirely unaware that Jon and a half dozen Rangers were standing behind him.  
Jon had taken a page out of Craster's, book; simply smashing Rast in the face from his blind side and dragging him to the Lord Commander. It had not exactly made Rast _fond_ of him, but Jon really found himself not caring. Nor had Mormont; who had forced Rast to turn over _two days_ worth of food to the girl, also giving her an extra blanket and sending her on her way, Jon escorting her back to her people who had taken her in with their usual distrust of outsiders.

Bad as bad as her life had been then, at least she had been alive. She had had _hope_ that they could reach the wall and perhaps find her kin somewhere in the wilderness.

Now, the utterly indifferent face hurrying towards him told him that even that had been taken from her by her fucking idiotic elders, who had run into the wild on this damn idiotic journey.

Setting himself, Jon steadied his rifle on its bipod - and blew her head to pieces.

Jeor Mormont was a man of many regrets. One did not leave to his age and not have many.

He regretted that he had never told his wife just how much he loved her anywhere near as much as he should have, before her time had come.

He deeply regretted that his Son had shamed him and his family name by trying to sell men like beasts, regardless of if they were criminals. Shaming their family name and destroying his life for the sake of a witch of a woman he had been desperate to make happy with gold. A woman who rather than accept exile with him had scorned him and run off to find some new man to bed.

He _bitterly_ regretted that Eddard Stark had loyally followed his friend Robert into the South and been laid low by Southern treachery. The greatest champion of the Night's Watch for countless generations dead far from his home - although Jeor had few doubts that he would arrive back at the wall to the news that the Lannisters had come to _deeply_ regret their actions.

He also regretted that he had loudly denounced Will when word had come from Winterfell that Lord Stark had executed him for desertion, scoffing at his warning that the White Walkers had returned as a pathetic lie to try and escape his just sentence.

But _right now_ , Jeor Mormont more than anything else regretted that his men were running out of ammunition.

Shotguns blasted, rifles thundered and more than a few enthusiastic Wildling archers sent fiery arrows ripping into the pack of Wights in support of the line of Black Brothers. Some of the wights, emaciated almost skeletal looking figures shattered and fell from the impacts into pieces. Others with their heads torn to shreds simply dropped like a murmurs puppet with its strings cut if the shot was placed true.

But more just shrugged off the loss of a limb or explosion of their organs to press forward as best they could.

The Brothers of the Watch were formed in a loose skirmish line in advance of the Wildling migration - he still couldn't bring himself to call it an 'army', as ill disciplined as it was. Clustered into small 'thunder teams' of a half dozen Rangers, they advanced covering each other, picking off the Wights as they appeared out of the mist. The attacks had been going on for almost an hour now, a steady 'dribble' of Wights that attacked, almost all of them quickly recognized as the Hornfoots who had ran off in the morning. But not very many of them, according to the crisply relayed messages.  
The tactics of the Wights at first had been bewildering. Coming at them with these small numbers rather than massing to launch a single overwhelming attack just let the Rangers - and the Wildlings themselves for that matter- easily kill them all. Then, faint sounds of gunfire from ahead had drifted down through the mist and their purpose had become crystal clear to Mormont. Only fifty Hornfoots had been accounted for, which meant most of them, plus however many other Wights were around, had to be focusing on Jon Snow and his group. These attacks were simply meant to delay them, ensure they could wipe out the smaller force ...

And, Old an New Gods save them, could these things even understand them _enough_ that they were going for the supplies themselves?

"Lord Commander" a gasping voice came from behind him as the few Wights not to fall in this wave were set upon by groups of Wildlings with remarkable enthusiasm using flaming torches and a mixture of other weapons. "The horses are ready".

"Good work Tarley" he grunted, turning to appraise the other briefly. He was no Ranger -so much so that he found it hard to credit he was truly Randall Tarlys son- but he had shown a genuine talent for medical work; serving as a superior field medic.  
 _Useless as he might be on the battlefield, he certainly had a future dealing with the aftermath_ he thought, stalking past the man to where the remaining stewards were waiting with near a hundred horses. The -mostly empty now- packs had been cast off and a handpicked force of many of the remaining Rangers were hauling themselves into the saddles of their mounts.

"Ready Lord Commander" grunted Rikes, a former Ironborn and experienced Ranger. The man had been the subject of more than a little dark humor over the last weeks, the famous creed of the Drowned God's followers that 'What is dead may never die but rises again harder and stronger' being darkly fitting when applied to their new enemy. So much so that several other Brothers had sarcastically suggested that the Drowned God was in fact a White Walker and his ancestors had just gotten a little drunk while at sea and gotten confused.  
The Ranger had thankfully taken the ribbing in _relatively_ good humor, cheerfully offering to drown anyone confused about the difference and let them see for themselves.

"Alright" Jeor nodded at the Ranger, deciding to keep it simple. "Get in fast, but if the battle is lost, get _out_ fast. We don't need to lose more men - or give _them_ any more" he pointed out, perhaps somewhat obviously. But he had long learned that it was far better to be sure to be _clear_ then leave orders to the … interpretation … of others.

And Rikes, solid man that he was, simply nodded once in understanding.

"Aye Lord Commander" he said before kicking his horse's ribs and with a thunder of hooves, the column was underway, galloping past the skirmish line still advancing ahead of the main body of Wildlings. Soon they were lost to sight.

He could only hope they arrived in time.

Now in the meantime, he frowned as he saw his men were slowing down and stomped back to the line, drawing his sword.

"Forward by ranks, keep moving!" he roared to his men as he stomped back, his voice sending a sudden surge of focus through the lines, even as he glanced into the distance to see yet more Wights starting to appear. "And if you still have any ammunition, fix Bayonets! Otherwise, swords!" he added as his own sword came out of its sheath with a whistling sound...

Jon Snow ducked and, with a whistling sound, a heavy club passed through the space his head had just vacated. Having put all its considerable power into the swing, the Wight stumbled on the follow through when it failed to connect, giving more than enough time for Jon to stab Longclaw into its head; slicing its face into a mess and causing it to collapse to the ground. Yanking his sword out of the corpse, Jon then was _barely_ in time to snap the blade into position to block the strike from another Wight, this one little more than a terrifying looking skeleton wielding a crude sword. It snarled at him - _how in the Seven Hells can it do that without breathing?-_ and for a moment he wrestled with the thing before a white blur smashed into it from the side. Seizing the thing in its powerful jaws, Ghost ripped it back and to the ground, Jon stepping forward at the opening to slam his boot down into its rotted skull which thankfully shattered like porcelain, stilling it at once.

His immediate area clear, Jon granted himself two full heartbeats to look around and take in the bleak situation. He could see they were down to perhaps half the men - and woman - they had started with, the rest either lying dead on the ground or dying behind those still standing. Five or six times as many bodies of Wights were smashed and cut up around them, with the sound of plenty more trying to force their way into the ancient tangle of low branches and roots between the Weirwoods. The tangled confines prevented _too_ many of the enemy from coming at them at once - and even let them rotate their people through to take a few precious gasps of air now and again, but the truth was they were being swamped. The sheer physical effort it took to take these things down and stop them moving was _incredible_. The battle had only raged for perhaps an hour at most, but Jon felt as if he had been swinging his sword all day, his arms numb less from the cold and more from sheer exhaustion.

Sheer terror however kept his muscles fueled and moving. Not so much a fear of death, but a fear of what might happen to them if they _did_ die.  
It was by in large the reason he had saved his last two bullets in his revolver.

"Jon!" a voice yelled from his right and Jon forced himself to stagger in the direction of the voice, trying to avoid tripping on the carpet of bodies and ropy tree roots. "You still alive?"

"I think so" he managed to say back as he rejoined the sadly diminished group, who were looking as exhausted as he felt, glancing around at them all. "Is this everyone?"

"More or less" Edd agreed, looking resignedly around at the mix of Free Folk and Rangers, their grim faces showing that they all felt this was the end. But terrifyingly, possibly _not_ the end...

"Gorne tried to run for it that way with a couple of others, heard their screams a few minutes ago" Ygritte put in as she rejoined them, having discarded her bow and it's empty quiver for a couple of lethal looking long knives.

"I'm sorry" Jon said, mostly on instinct. An instinct proven to be once again woefully wrong when it came to the 'Free Folk' as she -and then several others following her lead- spat on the ground.

"Cunts tried to run and l _eave us_ to distract the dead long enough to get away, serves em right" she shrugged, looking almost resigned before she glanced at where Krust, one of his Rangers, was pouring their last small supply of flammable oil onto a gathering of twigs and small branches around the truck of the Weirwood and throwing the few Firestarters they had handy into it as he readied a flare. "You ready yet crow?"

"Aye just about" the Ranger muttered as he worked. "Still ain't right though".

"Aye it isn't" Jon agreed feeling more than a little uneasy about burning down a Weirwood. All his life his Father and teachers had hammered into him the sacred nature of the trees, their connection to the Old Gods. The terrible crime that had been the Andals destroying most of those in the South in the name of their faith, a decision that ensured to this day the Faith of the Seven still had little traction north of Moat Cailin.  
But for a man of the _North_ to burn one down?

Still, if the alternative was leaving their bodies to be turned into Wights, he had a feeling the Old Gods would understand. And, if it took more of the Wights to the Hells with them, perhaps even approve.

"Well, at least we'll die _warm_ " Edd remarked and the joke, as bad as it was, earned a grim laugh from most of the bloodied people there.

"Aye, that we will" Jon managed a smile, the pounding of his head causing him to take a deep breath to try and settle himself, facing the fact that he was about to die...

Then when he was forced to blink as snow got in his eyes, glancing up to see trickles of snow falling from the thick leaves and branches above, shuddered loose by the noise, he realized the pounding _wasn't_ in his head.

It was-

"With me!" he shouted and reaching down, yanked the flare out of the hands of the man who had been just about to ignite it, turning to sprint out of the twisted confines of the Weirwood. He cut down two wights in passing, clambering over the dead bodies of friend and foe with the others following him, as he struggled to ignite the flare on the move. The pounding increased in volume as he reached where the trees widened back up and out into the valley -

And into a scene of complete chaos.

Horses thundered in every which direction around the Weirwood grove in a chaotic melee, trampling and smashing wights as they vanished in and out of the fog. Jon could only stand there gaping for a time until finally the green flare spluttered into life in his hand and in the dim light, blazed away as Jon tossed it off to the side on top of some stone quickly before it burned his hand. Above him in the trees, a large number of crows for some bizarre reason were screaming loudly and the wind rising, sending snow whipping.

It was complete chaos. He thought he heard and saw several of the brothers shouting at him as they rode past but he couldn't make out anything - then he saw a new wave of wights coming in for them even as the mounted men fought with others.

"Well what the fuck are you cunts waiting for, KILL THEM!" a harsh woman's voice roared and with that, Ygritte leapt forward into the fray.  
Of course after that, none of the twenty or so men left and on their feet could possibly hesitate.  
With a roar, they too charged forwards and in the eerie green light outside the looming weirwood trees, Jon threw himself into the fray, slicing one, two three of them in quick succession, Longclaw moving like a natural extension of his arm as he cut through the line of wights into the clear behind them ...

... and came face to face with a nightmare and myth made manifest.

It was clad in some kind of onyx like armor, that shimmered like ice. Ethereally beautiful in some terrifying way, with pure white hair whipping in the wind behind it. A long staff was grasped in one hand, rested vertically against the ground almost casually tipped with a long spear like blade of what looked like lethally sharp ice. But ice that was smoking with a mist that said it was not simply cold, but redefined what cold was.

But all these things Jon noticed only distantly as his gaze was drawn almost helplessly into the burning yet freezing eyes of the Other; of the White Walker The faint glow of the eyes of a wights was nothing compared to these orbs, which seemed to promise that all the hells and fury of winter were made manifest in this creature … which flickered ever so slightly to glance down. Almost without control, Jon's gaze followed … and he saw a discoloration on its chest. Where the otherwise flawless ice-like armor seemed to have shattered and reformed … and as its gaze returned to him, Jon _felt_ its hate as a near physical thing.

And at that point he realized _this_ was the White Walker he had shot. And without saying a word, it was promising that it had come for retribution and that his death would be more horrible than anything he could imagine.  
And then, bizarrely, Jon would have taken an oath to the Seven that he for some reason heard Theon Greyjoy of all people, in the back of his mind helpfully supplying the appropriate response from his list of somewhat … direct … sayings.

" _Eat shit and die"_ Jon Snow snarled and with a casual toss, he flicked Longclaw to his left hand as his right darted to yank his revolver, pulling the hammer back in the same motion as he drew. He caught a fleeting sense of amusement from the creature, its partisan whirling in a tight arc as he started to take aim-

And an explosion of snow erupted and shot right at him as the ice blade kissed the snow at its feet, a howling wind driving it into him.

Cursing, Jon shut his eyes and turned away, taking a step backwards and away as he berated himself for not putting on his snow goggles, but he dared not try and do so now. Some sense told him it was dangerously close and he sidestepped as he forced his eyes open and cleared them, a freezing chill that he felt in his soul ripping through where he had been standing. On instinct he advanced and swung his blade in a flat arc, the snow falling away to show the Walker terrifyingly close and already leaning away from his strike with its own weapon out of position and Jon desperately started to try and reverse the wild swing to stab it -

Leaving himself perfectly open for the _other_ end of its staff to swing up and slam into him like the fist of a giant. Jon snow had a sudden sensation of pain, then of flying, then of hitting something _very_ solid … then darkness.

"I know you can hear me"

Jon felt his eyes flutter open and he looked up to see the branches of the weirwood above him. Snow was falling down, but gently now with a clear late afternoon blue sky beyond and he marveled in how beautiful it all looked.

"And I know you're here"

Strange. That voice, distantly beyond the groggy confused part of his mind, seemed to be familiar...  
Slowly, feeling as if his limbs were made of lead, Jon forced himself to rise up to a sitting position, closing his eyes for a moment as dizziness rippled across him, feeling a deep tiredness and pain through his bones. Steadying himself, he opened his eyes-

 _Impossible…_

This _was_ a weirwood tree, eye. But it was not _just_ a weirwood … it was a _Godswood_. One he knew well. So very well.

And that voice …

Slowly, Jon turned his head, everything feeling oddly distant as he did so … and as the source of that voice came into focus, he felt his heart hit his throat.

Eddard Stark was walking through the Godswood of Winterfell with all the power, dignity and authority that was demanded of one who wore the titles of Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. He reached out to gently run a hand along the Heart Tree at the center of the wood but his gaze simply swept past him seemingly without seeing him on the ground directly in front of him - and Jon could not have said anything even if he _knew_ what to say.

"Come out now. I'm not going to ask again" his father said, striding past him only meters away, Jon simply staring in disbelief. Utterly frozen into inaction. "All of you, here, _now"_.

At that there was a rustling and Jon risked a glance away from the impossible … to see something even more impossible.

Himself.

That is, himself perhaps six _years_ ago. And next to him, rising with him from behind a shrub inside the peaceful Godswood were Robb … and Theon. All of them with identical expressions that somehow combined the embarrassment of young men getting caught doing something … with the stubborn determination of children who thought they were in the right.

Plus the almost omnipresent smirk Theon had worn on his face at that age...or any age really.

"You all have a lot of explaining to do" father said as he halted in front of them, crossing his arms with a scowl on his face. "The feast for the Manderlys starts in half and hour and you three were all supposed to be in the Great Hall twenty minutes ago".

"It was my fault" all three boys chorused at the same time, before turning in surprise to glare at each other and add, also in unison, "no it wasn't!"

Jon, despite the pains and aches that were wracking his body - and utter impossibility of what he was experiencing - couldn't help but painfully smile at that, good memories of better days flooding back into him as he recalled from his own memories this day. Aye, good thoughts to end one's life on, of family and home...

"From what your mother tells me, all _three_ of your disrespected her. Telling her that her seating arrangements were wrong. Then when she told you to sit down and be quiet, you all walked out of the great hall and vanished?"

"Well technically we didn't _vanish_ , we just ran out the door while her back was turned" Theon tried to snark, only to shut up quickly as his father turned his gaze on him, followed by Ron and his younger self also cringing into silence after they snickered at the joke under his unsmiling expression. He let them stay like that for a time, before nodding.

"Jon, Robb, go back to the great hall. Apologize to your mother and take your places for the feast. We will join you shortly".

The two exchanged glances, then with a muttered 'Yes Father' each they walked off with their shoulders slumped. Jon watched them leave, finally remembering now that this had all taken place years ago. About Theons always simmering anger that he, Jon, was always forced to eat away from the rest of the family at a 'lower' table at great feasts and celebrations. All because of the Lady Stark and her cold eyes at the sight of him anywhere near her 'Trueborn' children - always insisting it would be an insult to any guests to have him near them. Jon knew that Theon had grown fond of her and she of him, but that her cold indifference to the Bastard of Winterfell had always been a source of great friction between them. Theon always pushing her on the matter and her seemingly indifferent to his arguments, placidly telling him that it was none of his concern.

This situation he recalled had been one of his less 'genius' plans. When he had politely asked her to seat Jon with them on the High Table (and been pointedly refused), he had then requested that he and Rob sit with Jon at _his_ table. And after being again been pointedly refused, the three of them had simply walked out together. His 'cunning plan' being to hide out in the Godswood that Catelyn Stark rarely entered until the feast was upon them and she would have no choice but to agree to their demands. Something he had called 'passive resistance'.

His 'brilliant' plan had come undone as he recalled because Arya had been casually sitting in a window somewhere and had seen them 'sneak' out to the Godswood, promptly telling their Father when he had asked where her brothers were. Mostly because their sister had been annoyed that _she_ had not been included in this particular act of rebellion but stuck working on her needlepoint with her sister.

It _had_ mostly worked in the end though. Although he _had_ been seated at one of the lower tables with some lesser nobles from around Winterfell here for the feast celebrating the new shipyards Theon had designed going into full production at White Harbour, both Rob and Thoen had been able to quickly sneak away from the high table and join him along with Arya. Even as Sansa glared at them and their mother pointedly ignored their activities.

Wait. He had gone into the hall, sat down and Theon and Father had joined them not too long after … why was he seeing-

"What is this all about Thoen?" his Father finally asked after he and Rob had vanished through the wall back into Winterfell proper.

"It's not right" Theon had said stubbornly, Jon marveling through his stupor how fearlessly and stubbornly Theon had looked his Father in the face as he awkwardly sat down on a broken stone wall covered in moss.

"The way the Lady Stark treats Jon?" his father sighed, and Jon couldn't help but notice as his Father seemed to age several years with that sight, stepping forward towards Theon to sit next to him. "I know you mean well, but it's not your place to speak of these things".

"Then whose _is_ it?" Theon asked, an edge of frustration coming into his voice Jon well remembered from countless negotiations with Nobles and merchants he had tagged along to, with people far from convinced of his theories and 'crazy ideas' no matter how official the letter of introduction from Eddard Stark looked.  
Although come to think of it, the 'You're crazy, stop wasting my time Squid for brains!' responses had steadily been replaced with 'Shut up and take my Money!' as soon as Theon walked in the door, over time. Given that his innovations tended to bring those who backed him both wealth and power...  
" _He_ had no choice of who his mother was anymore than I had a choice over who _my_ father was" Theon continued, with passion in his eyes. "Everyone in _Winterfell_ knows Jon is no threat to Rob or his place as your heir. Jon would _die_ for Rob as much as Rob would die for him! _You_ know it, _I_ know it" Theon sighed explosively and shook his head. "And I think, deep down, under all that Tully stubbornness, _she_ knows it too".

Through the fog of his muddled mind and aching body, Jon couldn't help but feel a smile form at his all-but-brothers fierce defense of him.

"Aye, I think she does" Ned nodded once, looking away towards the Heart Tree with a slightly sad expression. "And you speak the truth; Jon doesn't deserve this, he never has. I'm glad that you and Rob are so fierce and protective of him. But" and now a slight edge came into his voice, clear and unequivocal and causing Theon to look up, "I will _not_ have you or Jon _or_ Rob disrespecting her in public like that _ever_ again. You're almost grown men now and _she_ is the Lady of Winterfell - and my Wife. You _will_ treat her with the respect due that. Am I clear?"

"Clear" Theon said with a nod that said he indeed clearly understood the warning given before blinking as Eddard Stark reached over to put an arm on his shoulder with a sigh.

"Beyond blood, beyond name, we're _pack_ Theon" his father said gruffly, but firmly. "And I've seen that you understand that better than perhaps _any_ of us and just want to look out for your brothers - yes Brothers" he affirmed as Theon looked up in some surprise at including him in that group, gripping his shoulder firmly. "You may not have my Blood like Jon. Or my name like Rob. But you already understand better than most grown men that such things mean little to nothing next to the bonds they form. For all the Targaryans obsession with blood purity, they destroyed themselves. And _you_ have more than proved that no-one is defined by their name".  
Eddard turned to glance at the heart tree once again, his eyes going distant.  
"I was your age when I was sent to the vale. Robert Baratheon shares no blood or name of mine, but he's my brother as much as Jon Aryn is my Father. Even more after I lost my kin in King's Landing" he mussed before he turned back to face Theon, pulling his arm away and letting his tone became slightly conciliatory. "I know Cat infuriates you because of the way she treats Jon and I'm even, proud of you and Rob for sticking with him. Because that's what pack does. And long after Cat and I are gone, the pack survives - no matter how one joins the Pack. You understand?"

"...Yes, I think I do" Theon agreed with an expression Jon know far too well on his face.

Clearly his Father knew it as well because he simply rolled his eyes and reached over to ruffle his wards hair for a moment before jerking his head towards Winterfell.

"Alright, off with you" his father ordered and obediently, Theon scampered through the late afternoon sun dimming into twilight, seemingly casually letting his hand pass along a branch from the Heart tree as he walked past, Jon watching him go before he turned to face his Father one last time. Feeling the cold slowly seeping into his body as he felt more and more _tired_ , just wanting to close his eyes and rest...

"Well. Aren't _you_ a miserable sight?"

Jon felt his head come around, his eyes blinking as he tried to find the next person who had entered the Godswood … only to stop as his gaze fell on his Father … who was looking _straight_ at him.

 _But … that's … this is ..._

"Personally, I thought the word 'impossible' lost most of its meaning the day after we saw Theon fly into the sky in that crazy 'balloon' of his, Jon" his Father replied to his unspoken thought with a raised eyebrow, standing to walk towards him and study him on the ground with a slightly critical expression. The expression that had _always_ said others that he was disappointed in them in some way that caused anyone under it to redouble their efforts without him saying a word.  
And almost on instinct he felt energy start to flow into his body again simply from the _look_ …

But with that energy came _pain_ again and Jon felt himself flinch away from that.

"It hurts…" he managed to say, his mind too numb to even consider the insanity of having a conversation with what could only be a hallucination of his Father as he felt his very bones cry out in agony.

"Aye, I know it does Jon" he said in that calm, even voice he had always secretly yearned to have directed at him as a child rather than Rob. "But Jon, pain is _good_. It's a teacher. It's teaches us our limits, it teaches us that we're _alive._ Those things you're fighting?" his Father glowered off into the distance for a moment before looking at back at him as he knelt down next to him. "They don't feel pain. Or fear. Or weakness. Or love, or mercy or anything that the living do. That pain is your path back from here and you _have_ to follow it Son".

"I don't want to go" he protested weakly, feeling tears coming to his eyes as he looked at close range with his Father, vaguely noticing that he had seemingly aged in the last few moments to look exactly like he had on the last day, outside Winterfell on the King's Road, not knowing it would be _the_ last time he would see him.  
How many nights since he had learned of his death had he wished for just one last time...and now that he were here he found he just _didn't know what to say-_

"Jon" the other firmly but gently spoke to him, drawing his focus. "Do you remember what Theon said at the first Festival of Fire and Steel?"

"That he was going to hit Dan for leaving his speech in the office?" he vaguely murmured.

" _After_ that" the other chided with a small smile.

"He said … he said … " Jon wracked his sluggish brain to remember what Theon had improvised; one quote from Theon among so many memorable speeches he had given before it came into focus. "Ask not what the Realm can do for you…"

"...but ask what you can do for the Realm" his Father nodded. "In those words Theon distilled _exactly_ what it means to be a Stark Jon. _That_ , is what has kept us the Lords of the North for a hundred generations. _That_ is what keeps us alive when winter comes. A _true_ Stark is one who will fight for his pack. His family, his city, his Realm, his Kingdom, his race. Never any hesitation, no regrets and _never_ " and Jon hissed as his Father _poked_ him in the chest, sending a stab of pain through him that seemed to bring focus and sharpness to his thoughts, " _giving up!_ Two of your Brothers rose to lead the North after I died, no matter how terrified they were that every decision now rested on their shoulders alone. And they did it by carrying each other when they needed to. Your sister, stripped of everything but her name in a place it was a curse refused to give up or give in - and sacrificed everything to keep your other sister, _her_ pack, safe. And, smiled knowing she had won when she was able to get her to safety. Bran, a cub who can't even walk is making his way far from home because he can't see any other way to help the pack fight the coming winter. Despite his terror, despite how hard it would be".

"I'm not a Stark, I'm a Snow" he muttered, earning a _very_ familiar look of anger from his Father that shut down his self pity as if a switch had been thrown.

" _Being a Stark isn't about the name Jon"_ his Father didn't _quite_ glare at him. "If Theon taught you _nothing_ else from his lessons, he should have taught you _that!_ It may take a King to legitimize you and give you a different name, but the _name_ doesn't make you a _Stark_ Jon. Only _you_ can do that … but if you want it … _you're going to have to get up_ ".

Jon stared at his Father for a moment, the sheer challenge in his tone and question in his eyes … laid out so simply and directly.

Stark … or Snow.  
Jon made his choice.

Pain screamed through his ribs and arms as he willed himself to move. It hurt, it hurt so much that it staggered him but he threw his willpower at it and slowly, sluggishly, he started to move. Gritting his teeth, he felt back against the solid bulk of the Weirwood tree behind him, closing his eyes and forcing himself to take a deep breath as he got his legs under him and raised himself up. The pain surprisingly starting to fade as he got his balance back, his eyes tightly shut as he forced himself to breath deeply. His body ached … but it seemed to be moving as he slowly staggered to his feet.

" _Your mother was a woman who taught me the_ true _meaning of the word 'pack' Jon"_ his Father added distantly, even as the sound of battle started to come back louder and louder. " _You have it within you to become as great a Stark as any in history. Promise me you'll keep fighting Jon … promise me…promise me..."_

Jon Snow opened his eyes.

Ahead of him, twenty meters away, the White Walker spun with a terrifying elegance, seemingly fighting two people at once with a casual ease. Far more bodies were strewn around the clearing then there had been earlier - and grimly he noted far too many of them were horses and men in black, even as he noted many others still riding around and keeping the Wights at bay. Staring at the Walker, he saw it spin its partisan to intercept a strike by Edd, his very expensive castle forged sword smashing into the fragile looking partisan … and exploding into a scattering of shards.

So. It seemed the Free Folk _had_ been telling the truth when they had insisted that crossing swords with a White Walker was little more than a good way to lose your sword.

The loss of his sword caused Edd to stumble and a wight to take the chance to leap at him as the Walker indifferently turned away, with Ghost, again, coming out of nowhere to intercept the wight and carry it to the ground, Edd in turn snatching a blade from a corpse nearby and helping to start dismember it.  
Jon however had to tear his gaze away from _that_ fight as he saw the White Walker had lost all interest in Edd, instead it was stalking implacably towards a moving Free Folk on the ground that was trying to crawl backwards away from it as it hefted its weapon with an expression of pure indifference as it loomed over them.

Then, as the Wildling desperately tried to speed up its hood came loose, Jon saw the red hair … and _his_ hand moved seemingly without conscious thought or action.

His Snowstorm revolver roared twice and the White Walker was viciously slammed backwards to a knee from the 'double tap' as the slugs smashed into it with a screeching sound, sending sparks flying from its chest. Ygritte not needing a second invitation rolled to her feet and staggered away, cradling one of her arms to her body as she fled towards him. The Walkers head snapped up and a look of pure human malevolence rippled across its face followed by an inhuman screech as it got back to its feet, using its partisan for leverage. And out of nowhere, a trio of wights charged him, apparently summoned by their master.

Still feeling slightly detached from the events, Jon dropped his empty revolver and got a good two handed grip on his blade as he stalked forward, noting and dismissing the shocked look on Ygrettes face as she stumbled past him. He killed the first wight with a quick parry and stab, yanking his blade clear in time to slice the leg off from the next as it swung high, ducking low and simply ignoring the protests in his muscles as the wight collapsed, immobilized. Then the third was there leaping at him without any weapons but its hands and Jon swung across it, gore exploding from the relatively fresh corpse, which collapsed but crashed into him and knocked him off balance-

"JON!" a woman's voice screamed in warning.

He knew what the warning was about as he felt intense cold coming up behind him even as he forced the body away from him. He also knew from what he had just seen that crossing blades with a Walker was a mistake - yet so many years of training could not simply be ignored in the heartbeat of time and reflex … and so Jon spun and brought his blade around to block the swing of the Walkers weapon, realizing far too late in the milliseconds between through and action that he had just doomed himself, as the strike would shatter his blade and leave him defenseless at point blank range with an enraged Other who-

 _ **SCHWEINNNNG**_

The ear ringing sound _exploded_ out from the point of contact between the two weapons as they smashed into each other - and Jon barely managed to keep his grip as the Longclaw was almost torn from his hands from the force. The _incredibly_ loud sound seeming to waver in the air and _finally_ snap his being fully back to the here and now, his eyes tracking down to stare dumbly at where the two blades met as if not believing what had just happened…

The ancestral blade of House Mormont, dragonfire forged magic of Ancient Valyria made manifest remained perfectly intact, blocking the progress of the White Walkers own magical weapon.

And to his sudden exhilaration, he realized _he_ was not the only one shocked by that eventuality. The White Walker in front of him was staring at the sight of the blades as if at a complete loss. Then it looked back up and met his gaze … and Jon couldn't help for once by let a smirk onto his face he knew Theon would have given him a 'thumbs up' on.

Snarling at once, the Other wrenched the blade free and pressed, Jon parrying the blow and a dozen more strikes that followed, somehow feeling energy return to his body as his blade sang with each deflection and parry. Jon felt his focus narrowing to the ancient enemy in front of him as years of training under the steady hand and guidance of Rodrik Cassel, his Father and many of his bannermen suddenly came together in a way it had never before. He could _feel_ that the Walker was lashing out with fury and power, but little skill, trying to just overwhelm him, as if ill-practiced in genuinely _fighting_ and he didn't meet strength with strength, but with skill. Out of the corner of his eyes he actually sensed that the rest of the fight was winding down - even that there were Rangers with guns screaming at him to get down and let them shoot, but he didn't dare, trusting himself as he felt the rage from the White Walker increase as he refused to go down, calmly waiting until -

When the moment came, it was almost too easy as Jon suddenly sidestepped where before he had parried, letting the _Walker_ this time grossly over-commit with a swing intended to slice him in half as Jon aligned his sword, _thrust_ into those burning eyes-

And watched as the White Walker simply seemed to explode or collapse into thousands of flakes of snow or ice that blew away on the cold winter wind and sprayed over the ground.

Moments later it was as if the walker never was and Jon blinked, bringing his focus back as he brought his sword back to a guard position, but looking around could only see the forms of Rangers and Free Folk … both groups unified as they looked at him in stunned disbelief.

"...total dead are less than sixty Lord Commander, but many of the survivors are in bad shape" Jon continued his briefing as he looked around the main room of Craster's Keep from the table, fighting off exhaustion.

Craster himself was glaring from the 'high table' at the end of the room, contemptuous of the wounded lying in his hall. Most of them were asleep, their pain quelled by fresh supplies of the 'Morpha-Milk' that Theon had quietly supplied for testing with strict instructions on the dosages. Sam had proven entirely up to the task - even having something of a instinct sense beyond any manual - and was even now carefully injecting one brother with a fresh dose. _  
_Theon had made it clear that the testing showed that it was substantially more effective than Milk of the Poppy from which it was derived, with fewer side effects. Of course at the same time, it was still an 'experimental' drug. Like most of the technology the Night's Watch received from him, they got the first shipments of prototypes and proof-of-concepts for field testing before anyone else, with a tacit understanding that _they_ would work out any 'bugs'. Nevertheless, the Lord Commander had decided the need was great enough to risk the drugs use.

And thank the Gods for that, as it seemed to have let most of the seriously wounded actually get some sleep.

Craster had not at all been happy with the idea of turning his keep into a makeshift healer station. But then he had also been surprisingly quick to understand that the massive army of Wildlings and Rangers now on his front doorstep had exactly zero tolerance for his worship of the White Walkers and _every_ reason to simply want to kill him and be done with it if he had chosen their side over man's. And so he had been quick to offer bread and salt almost before they had knocked on his door. And with that done, put himself beyond harm.

Not beyond _talking_ and making constant comments that made Jon want to grind his teeth, but beyond harm.

"Sam" Jon continued, nodding at the young man who was moving to the next ranger in turn with a couple of other stewards helping him, "says that most of the wounded will need weeks before they will be able to make the trip the rest of the way to The Wall without risk. And some" he added in a lower voice, "might not even make it through the night".

Jeor simply nodded in his usual stoic way as he continued working on a message, although Jon noticed that the utterly stoic man did have hints in his face of exhaustion for the first time. Between the three battles against the Wights, the original three hundred strong ranging was down to just over a hundred fifty men, with over half that number wounded in the last battle either fighting to save him and his advanced group, or, when a hundred fresh Wights had made a final attack on the Black Brothers skirmish line, which they had defeated at terrible cost.

Even now, a massive pyre was being prepared for the dead Black Brothers, as well as the dozen or so Wildlings who had fallen when Tormund had led a charge into the melee with a couple of hundred of his own people to tip the scales of the fight and prevent a lot of wounded Brothers from becoming dead Brothers.

As horrible as the losses to the Night's Watch had been, Jon was somewhat heartened to see that, with a few exceptions, the two sides had genuinely come to respect each other. They had all fought bravely, they had fought together - and because of that, they had won. His father had always said that you found your true friends on the battlefield… _  
_He tried _not_ to think about his Father though. His exhausted mind just wasn't in any state to deal with the implications of _that_ right now.

"So we have about sixty brothers who can still move and fight, sixty more dead and the rest wounded, some of whom are not going to make it".

"Aye Lord Commander" Jon nodded. "But we're close to The Wall now" he noted and leaned forward intently. "Give me five men and horses and I can get to Castle Black in a bit over a week and bring back more men, supplies-"

"You will head to Castle Black" the Lord Commander interrupted him and Jon blinked slightly, having expected to either be told to mind his place or at the very least, require more convincing. "You'll take forty men with you and guide the Wildlings to the Wall as planned, I'm placing you in command of them".

Placing him in command after he had gotten over half his men killed?

"With respect Lord Commander … I'm your steward, I should stay with you" he tried.

"You're my Steward which is _precisely_ why you have to go" Jeor corrected him as he finished writing and folded the paper neatly, taking a wax stick and starting to melt it in a nearby candle as he continued. "The personal Steward of the Lord Commander serves as his personal emissary, relaying his orders to brothers and his requests to outsiders. These" he pressed the wax to the paper before then applying his signet ring to seal it "are my orders and instructions to the order. _You_ will deliver them personally to the brothers at Castle Black and _you_ will ensure they are carried out".

Oh, joy

Jon couldn't help but think, knowing that Ser Alliser, who was in charge at Castle Black until the Lord Commander returned, would just _love_ this... _  
_One look at the expression on the face of the Lord Commander however killed any instinctive desire to try and talk his way out of the others.

"Yes Sir" he said instead and the other offered him a gruff nod of approval at his simple acceptance of the orders, before his expression softened slightly.

 _Very_ slightly.

"You've earned the respect of the men and the Wildlings _actually_ seem to trust you. As much as they trust anyone, anyway. I'm keeping Rast, Ollo and the like here with a few others here to help Tarly and the other Stewards, so they won't cause you trouble. It'll be up to _you,_ Snow, to get the Wildlings to The Wall and through it. You also have a better chance at smoothing anything over with Winterfell over settling thousands of Wildlings onto The Gift than anyone else, with your uncle still missing".

"I understand" he nodded, trying not to think about the weight of the responsibility.

"Good" the other said, his face closing up again. "Now, go and let the Wildlings know you're moving at first light" Jeor said, handing over the sealed orders with an air of dismissal. Taking them, Jon stood from the table, deliberately did _not_ look up where Craster was pawing one of his wives … and child … lest he be far too tempted to draw his reloaded snowstorm revolvers and bring the wrath of the Gods upon him for breaking Guest Right.

Instead he exited the keep and stalked out down the hill, his eyes momentarily glancing down to where he had first laid eyes on the ancient enemy the first time he had visited the keep, before fighting off the chill and moving forward to where the Wildlings were massed, already starting to light off their nightly fires as he moved through their camp.

It dawned on him after a few minutes minute as he made his way to Tormund's tent that he had made it over halfway through the wildling camp … and he had not been challenged _,_ when he would normally be asked several times 'what's your business _crow?_ _'_ by some distrusting Wildling as he moved through 'their' part of the camp. _  
_At least when he didn't have Ghost following him - the Dire Wolf unsurprisingly seemed to make people disinclined to bother him.

Glancing around as he moved on, it finally dawned on him that more than a few Wildlings were simply _staring_ at him in something akin to awe, to the point that people actually stopped working as he walked past … and more than one younger woman gave him a look that was … intense, in a way that caused his cheeks to flush red before he hurriedly looked away.

Well, he supposed it could be worse. At least Ygritte wasn't-

"So _Lord_ Snow, hero of the battle, has decided to _grace_ us with his presence" a familiar voice broke into his thoughts at that precise moment and Jon fought off the very real urge to sigh and close his eyes.

"I'm here to see Tormund" Jon replied as evenly as he could.

"Well I didn't think you were here to tell bed-stories to children" Ygritte scoffed mockingly as she fell into step with him, Jon rolling his eyes briefly at that as they approached the tent in question before she actually seemed to hesitate for a second. "Your wounded?"

"Some won't make it, most will" he confirmed. "Yours?"

"Thanks to your healers, they're doing better" she admitted before again looking down to pick at the tightly wrapped bandage down her right arm. She had barely managed to avoid dying in the battle, a White slicing her in several places including her arm. Quick action had stopped the bleeding and Sam had applied a proper bandage to help her heal, but it meant she wouldn't be drawing a bow anytime soon, a weakness she was clearly unhappy with.

But then she could have been dead, so Jon thought she was doing pretty well.

"Good" Jon responded as they halted in front of Tormund's tent, a couple of members of his tribe standing outside it nodding to them and stepping aside to let them pass. He caught a glimpse of something in Ygritte's face, as if she had wanted to say something … but it passed as they moved inside.

"Snow" the massive man grunted from inside the tent, looking up from where he and the assembled Wildling leadership had been talking, all of them looking in better spirits than they had for weeks, despite the attack. A spare map from the Night's Watch taken from their supplies had been rolled across a makeshift table, with the group working on their route to The Wall as they looked up. "What news?"

"The Lord Commander is staying here with his wounded until they're fit to move" Jon informed the others as he walked up to them, having learned by now that Tormund had neither time nor concern for any pleasantries. "I'm to take forty men with you tomorrow. We'll escort you to Castle Black".

The other Wildlings exchanged murmurs and looks at that.

"Why would the other crows let us in if _he's_ not there to tell them?" another Wildling demanded with suspicious eyes.

"He's given me written orders" Jon explained before deciding he needed to explain more at the confused looks some of them sent back his way. "It's the same as if he was there telling them himself - his orders _will_ be obeyed" he said, before letting a slight smirk come onto his face. "It's one of the advantages of being a _kneeler_. He _orders_ , we _obey_ and that's all there is to it".

In theory anyway

Jon thought, but decided it would be a very bad idea to voice his concerns about it here and now.

"When we reach The Wall, I'll go in first with the rest of the Rangers while you and the Free Folk stop in the forest well back and out of range of the guns on The Wall. We explain the situation, hand over the orders and organize the movement through the wall. Shouldn't take more than a day or two at most. Then we move everyone through the Wall onto The Gift".

There was a grunt of something like acceptance from the Wildling at his explanation.

"Going to beg the Crows to let us through, I still can't believe this is what we've come to" another Wildling muttered, glaring at Jon like he always did … although with grim amusement Jon noted that there was _just_ a hint of fear in the others eyes today.

"Believe it - or you can stay here with the child fucker and pray to the dead to spare you" Giantsbane scoffed at the other with contempt, earning a glare, but no more talk back as he traced his glare around the room. "Make sure everyone is ready to move. The weather's good and the hard ground behind us. We walk from sun-up to sun-fall. The sooner we get to The Wall, the better".

With a mumble of noise the other Wildling chiefs and leaders left the tent, going to start organizing things for the morrow.

"I am starting to get the feeling Bupta doesn't like me" Jon noted, earning a snicker from Ygritte.

"It'll take more than your pretty face to make him like you Snow" Giantsbane snorted in some amusement at the comment. "But that's just him showing off for the others, he's fucking terrified of being left behind, they all are. Everyone wants to hide behind your wall and the guns on it because they know it's the only hope they have to live and Mance knew he didn't have a hope of trying to force his way through. Not with the new weapons you have".

"So why did Mance attack us at the Fist?" Jon asked with narrowed eyes.

"That wasn't him - not at first" Ygritte shrugged. "A few tribes got it in their heads that they could take you by surprise and seize your magical weapons for themselves and attacked without waiting for his orders. Then, others decided to try and get in on the situation and launch a bigger attack the next day and he gave his permission".

"They became an example of the power of the Crows he could show the entire free folk, all at once" Tormund explained at Jon's look at that revelation. "It convinced a lot of people who were afraid of the dead but not convinced that trying to fight past the wall would just get a lot of people killed. Convinced them that he was right in his plans … and got rid of those who didn't _really_ want to follow him anyway".

"And" Ygritte added casually, "he thought that at least their deaths might weaken you, run down your supplies of weapons enough that you would be more willing to talk and come to an agreement with us. Or if somehow they _did_ seize the fist, he had issued instructions to take as many of you alive as possible as hostages to negotiate passage".

Jon couldn't help but blink at the cold, brutal logic. The utterly senseless wasting of lives when Mance was supposedly trying to _save_ them … and yet, in the Wildling culture, it made far too much sense to him that he would consolidate his leadership in such a way that whatever outcome, he would win.

"I see" he said before moving on and changing the subject quickly. "Anyway, it's about eighty miles to The Wall from here. If the weather holds, we should be able to make it in a week or less".

"And then?" Ygritte asked as she crossed her arms, looking at him. "What happens to us after we're through the wall?"

"One thing at a time Ygritte" Jon chided her as he looked at the basic map. "One thing at a time".

It had taken some time, but it was good enough.

Jon had a final look over the short message and pushed away from the table. Ghost whined as he stood, clearly annoyed at being woken from his warm nap, but Jon simply offered a smile at the Dire Wolf.

"Stay here, I won't be long" he promised and the Dire Wolf thumped its tail in agreement. Edd had left him half an hour ago to write in peace and Jon thankfully ran into no-one as he ascended the stairs to the ravenry, opening the door onto a scene of chaos as dozens of assistants ran around frantically preparing messages and birds, with Maester Aemon sitting in the middle of it all with an oddly detached serenity as he carefully directed the preparations.

He handed over the message to an annoyingly awed looking brother with instructions for its delivery and the man hurried off, promising to _personally_ look after this message for him.

That done, Jon collected Ghost and headed to the kennel he kept the Dire Wolf in, securing him for the night with some food and water. He crossed the mostly empty courtyard to climb to his room and just as he reached the door, a loud squawking sound drew his attention skywards.

From the top of one of the towers at Castle black, a stream of Ravens took to the sky. All of them turned South and were soon lost to the evening sky as their courses started to diverge.

To Winterfell they went and Sunspear. To King's Landing and Dragonstone, to Casltey Rock and Highgarden. To the Eyrie and to Pyke, to Storms End and to the Citadel. Several in close formation flew for Riverrun - but all of them carried a similar message.

Winter is no longer coming.

Winter, is _here_.

And the dead come with it.


	36. Yet again still even more chapters!

**Mirror Notes:** Somewhere along the way the roman numerals got screwed up. These are placeholder chapter names until I go back through and fix them all up. Nothing to do with the story.

Read on.

 **LXXIX: Of Kings, Wolves and Ravens, Part 4**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, The Crownlands_

 **Theon Greyjoy  
\- - - - - -**

The specific planning for the structure of the Commonwealth was something I only contributed the basics of. Rule of law was the main focus, but provisions put in place to keep any one faction involved having too much power: Even the common people. As it was, the legal precedents were primarily based on the Grand Council concept. In this case, the majority of the lords seemed all right with that. With a "Supreme Warden" to be elected by the council representatives with the power of that decision imbued in them by their Lord Paramounts.

Well, Kings now, I suppose. Though with the trade and tax levels staying largely the same, the economic infrastructure of Westeros wasn't changing too quickly.

The biggest changes though were going to be in the actual legal framework of the kingdoms. And thank God I wasn't involved with that: I'd shoved it onto Lord Judge Ondrew Locke of Deepwood Motte. He was the supreme judge of the North, and was a hell of a lawyer to boot.

It was going to take time. A lot of time. Thankfully though, not my problem. Unless it went wrong.

... It was probably going to go wrong. Until then though?

"No," I said flatly. Robb scowled.

"Theon, come on!"

"No," I stated again, flipping through Varys' records. He'd kept them, meticulously and well organized. I was very impressed, but not too surprised.

"The North requires a representative on the Grand Council, who better for the post than you?" Robb asked, scowling over the table.

"Give it to Lord Bolton. He's fair," I said. "Also scary. Good combination."

"Roose Bolton is not my brother in all but blood!" Robb protested. "I need someone I can trust absolutely!"

"So, you don't trust Lord Roose?" I asked, skipping ahead in the records with a frown. "Terrible handwriting," I muttered.

"I do," Robb said, "but I think that as the man who brought us to all of this, you would be the perfect choice!"

I sighed and put down the papers, looking up at Robb.

"Then why don't you become King of Westeros? You'd be the perfect choice," I said. "Honorable, honest, war hero-"

"I didn't knock over the Iron Throne to become the next tyrant!" Robb growled. "This isn't what this was about!"

"Technically we didn't knock it over," I pointed out. "It's still there. I mean, I have enough thermite for-"

Robb growled deeply, and slammed his hands on the table. I sighed, and looked up.

"Your eyes are yellow," I said. "Did you know that?"

"I... Wha?" Robb started, and pulled out his lighter. He examined himself in the shiny material of the metal, eyes widening. "I... They are... But how-?"

"Most likely?" I said smoothly, pressing my hands together into a steeple shape on the table, "you're a warg, Robby. You have a magic connection with your Direwolf."

Robb gaped at me. "I-"

"And no, I'm not terribly surprised because Bran's a warg and possibly a greenseer," I went on. "In fact, most of the Stark family seems to demonstrate warg-like abilities. They come in handy?"

"I... Yes...?" Robb managed. He shook his head. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm a scientist, Robb," I said, rolling my eyes. "And it kept you alive. So why complain about it?"

Robb scowled. "... All of that aside," he groaned, "I don't see what it has to do with you not wanting to assume a role of incredible power and authority..." He stopped, and shut his eyes tightly. "I just answered my own question, didn't I?" Robb muttered.

I gave him a sarcastic clap. "Very good, Your Grace," I said dryly. "I mean, shit, how much paperwork do you do for the North _and_ the Riverlands?"

"Too much," Robb muttered. I nodded.

"Well do you want to do paperwork for _seven whole kingdoms?"  
_ _ **  
**_"This is how you'll sell true democracy to the nobility, isn't it?" Robb groaned, his hands over his face. "I can see it now... The diabolical stacking of paperwork, to bloodlessly encourage the lords to give up their powers."

I blinked at Robb. I scratched my head.

"... That's a really good idea!" I said cheerfully. "I mean, we'll need a large population of literate people who can own their own property first, so that won't happen for another generation or two, but hey! It's the perfect way to allow it to progress."

"Don't let it get around, you'll be strung up and burned," Robb grumbled. I shrugged. Robb sighed. "All right... I will have Lord Bolton serve for a time."

"And you'll want to get out of here before they elect you 'Supreme Warden'," I said with a smile. "In fact, that's probably going to happen."

Robb groaned, and sat at the table. He buried his face in his hands. "Why did I come up with such a stupid, stupid idea?" He grumbled. I reached out and patted him on the shoulder, gently.

"Because you're the right man for the job," I said, shrugging. We sat in silence for a time, as I continued my research into Varys' notes and background information. It was remarkably thorough: Even included a few photographs of Cersei, Sansa, and other members of the Royal Court who had vanished with the Red Keep's destruction.

As well as records of who Tyrion had contacted to secure passage for the Royal Family, in case... Well, what had happened, happened.

Robb slowly looked up at me, sighing. "... How do you do it?" He asked. I looked up.

"Hm?" I grunted.

"How do you... Do you jape and joke like this? After everything we've been through," he asked quietly. "With all the responsibilities... All the blood..."

I set the papers down. I sighed deeply, and looked past Robb's shoulder. The look on my face must have been disturbing, since he stared intensely.

"... Robb," I began, "I am probably the cause of more deaths in the history of Westeros' wars than anyone else combined. The primary reason the Westerlands and the Stormlands are being so cooperative with us is because most of their knights are _dead._ And my weapons, my technology... That's what allowed it to happen." I looked down at the papers again, twiddling my thumbs. "I know, intellectually, that it isn't _my_ personal fault. I did not order every trigger pulled. I did not cut off our father's head, bringing this war about... But the fact it, I made it possible. And I have to live with that... As does everyone else."

I looked up at Robb again, but couldn't quite meet his eyes. "... Science has not shown me one bit of kindness, or joy, or love in this universe," I said firmly. "Not one atom's worth. So I can either act like those things don't exist... Or I can try to make them come true. I mean... What else can I do? You need someone to joke. You need someone to help you, and be your brother, or you'll be a bad king... And I need to believe that there are reasons for joy and laughter in the universe, or... I'm just Death. Destroyer of Worlds."

Robb stared at me. Without a word, he rose up, and circled around. He hugged me, and I hugged him. We sat in silence, just two brothers, together, who had changed the world.

And in a way, it was me saying good bye to the old memories of my world. Not entirely... But accepting that this was who I am. Who I was. Theon Greyjoy. The Boomsquid. The Genius.

And Robb Stark's brother.

"Excuse me, Your Grace, My Lord," said Varys, and we looked up to see the fat eunuch standing there with a smile. Robb pulled away, and stood up straight.

"Yes, Lord Varys?" Robb asked.

It was a courtesy, really. Varys officially had no role right now. Tyrion was angling for him to be the Master of Whispers for the Grand Council, and I had accepted this. We still needed his intel: Now more than ever.

"Some general news," Varys spoke, walking over and standing before us in a stance of respect. "Prince Martell and his entourage are soon to dock, as is Lord Baelish. Lord Mace Tyrell arrives with a great host. The final Council Deliberations are being worked out: For the time being, it will meet in a room above the Great Hall."

Varys took another breath. "Lord Umber and Lord Manderly's construction companies have both submitted proposals for the new Grand Council complex in the Dragonpit. The fire damage to Flea Bottom would allow for a great deal of reconstruction..."

"And they won't be the last," I said with a smile to Robb. "I think House Mormont will also send their Mechmen with a proposal?"

"That fast?" Robb asked, shaking his head. "I suppose that many Guild members with the Armies made it a simple matter to survey."

Robb scowled. He clearly didn't want to be seen to be taking advantage of the Southerners. Good for him.

"Also, a missive from Castle Black," Varys stated smoothly, handing it over. "Upon microfilm, I believe it is called?"

Robb reached out his hand. I held out a magnifying glass. He slid the missive under it, and read through it. His face turned pale. Varys raised an eyebrow, as did I.

"Your Grace?" Varys asked.

"Impossible," Robb muttered. "I... It says that the White Walkers...," he looked up at us, "have returned."

Well it was about fucking time! Was what I was thinking. I wisely kept it to myself.

Varys hummed. "Your Grace," he said, "while my little birds do indeed sing songs of strange things happening at the Wall, to suggest that such things out of legend are returning-"

"Jon write it?" I asked. Robb nodded. "Then it's true."

Varys glanced at me, surprised... And then his face became neutral as I stared back at him. I looked back at Robb, deadly serious.

"You believe it then?" Robb asked. I nodded.

"I believe it," I said.

"... Then we must raise the alarm," Robb said definitely. "Bring the commanders of the army to me: We must march back North and-"

"And! And... No," I said, holding my hands up. "Not yet."

Robb stared at me in confusion. "You believe it-"

"Yes, but given our situation here, I don't think we can outright blurt it out," I stated. Varys hummed.

"I believe what Lord Greyjoy means is that to spread such news now, right after seizing King's Landing and creating a newborn alliance, might be fatal to that same alliance," Varys suggested. I nodded.

"Yeah. That," I said, again wondering if letting him live was a good idea. "At the same time!" I said quickly, cutting off Robb's anger, "we're not going to just ignore it. But we need to do this... Carefully. Slowly. Secretly, to avoid a panic. After all, Jon's word is good enough for us... But for the rest of the Realm?"

Robb grimaced, and looked down at his hands. He thought, considered... I held my breath.

Yes, the White Walkers were coming. Yes, I was Theon the Genius and most people listened to me. Yes, there was a part of me that was _demanding_ that I make this public and call for soldiers, go into battle. But...

"... You believe this is the right course of action?" Robb asked. I nodded.

"I do," I said. "Besides... We need to know more. Know what these things are capable of... Know if our stuff can even hurt them." I looked over at Varys. "Something we could use your assistance on, Lord Varys. If you deem to offer it?"

"I believe that is within my powers, my Lord," Varys said, still smiling oddly. I didn't know what to make of it. All I had was the assurance that if he did anything, a bullet would quickly end his life. But how much damage could he do before then...? "In fact, information gathering is all the more vital. According to legend... Dragon fire was able to stop the White Walkers. And how convenient that there is a set of dragons across the sea, near where the former Queen and Princess Sansa are heading?"

"... Very convenient," I said dryly. "And not very subtle."

Varys shrugged, hands in his sleeves. "It's all in how one presents oneself, my Lord," Varys said gently.

We both looked at Robb. He sighed, and nodded.

"If you think this is the way to do it, Theon... Then I agree," he said. Robb frowned. "It also makes what I plan to do about... Another problem much, much easier."

"Oh? Which one?" I asked. Robb managed a small smile.

"Stannis."

 **LXXX: Of Kings, Wolves and Ravens, Part 5**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, The Crownlands_

 **Theon Greyjoy  
\- - - - - -**

"Eddie, Robb," I began, standing on the stinking docks of King's Landing, " _no."  
_ _ **  
**_"Funny, I remember Jon being the one to tell you that when we were growing up. Frequently," Robb said in amusement, as Eddie Karstark fiddled with one of the new "airboats" delivered by Northern ship. He had finished the assembly at the crack of dawn, and was almost all ready to go with it an hour or two later.

Which is, coincidentally, when Robb had told me about this idea.

"One, Jon didn't know what the hell he was talking about: He knows _nothing,_ remember?" I said flatly, but I was a little relieved to be able to joke about Jon. I didn't know if my butterflies had made it more or less likely for him to survive, and fighting a _White Walker_ now?!

I mean, he didn't have any proof, but I knew he wasn't going to lie about something _that_ _awesome._ Just not tell the whole thing. He was much like Ned had been, in that respect.

"Two," and I raised a finger up as Robb eagerly pulled on a flight cap and goggles, "you admitted that Stannis invited you to come to Dragonstone. You _really_ want to fly there in something he could take out with one shot?"

"Hey! That was lucky!" Eddie shouted, as he slammed a hammer against the engine. His Gearwife, Bri-something, rolled her eyes as she continued checking the wires and ropes holding the gas bag to the skiff.

"Yes Eddie, it was, and I am very impressed one of them made it down here under its own power," I shouted back apologetically. "But how bad would it look on your resume if the King died when he's just won the war? On the thing that helped him win it?"

Eddie frowned. "... I will admit, the thought had not occurred," he said. His Gearwife snorted, and he scowled at her. "Come on!"

"Theon, look," Robb said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I doubt Stannis is just going to try for an assassination on me at this stage. Do you think that fits his character?"

"Renly," I said. Robb nodded, sighing in the way he knew he'd said something stupid. I spared him the "Stark talk" this time though.

"Okay... But like you say: Different context. Would he do that when he has no chance of victory? At all?"

"Also, you're still flying in something that will burst into flames with one hit," I stated. "Just to show him up? That'll impress him."

"I have to _impress_ on him that things have changed," Robb insisted. "What better way than to arrive in Dragonstone, flying like the Targaeryans of old, in a device built by the second born son of a Northern lord?"

"I get the symbolism," I said, as Eddie cursed loudly about a fuel pump, "but how about this? Let Eddie fly around in his deathtraps-"

"Could you build them better?" Eddie demanded. I just shot him a stare, and was pleased when everyone else in range stared at him. He flushed, and rubbed the back of his head. "Sorry... Stupid question-"

"Eddie! I'm not disparaging your skills," I said with a more gentle tone, "but you have heard the story of when I took the first gun I ever made, mass produced it and gave it to all the soldiers of the North to use?"

"You didn't-Oh. You're being sarcastic," Eddie grumbled. "Thanks."

I shrugged and looked back at Robb. "Just let Eddie work out all the kinks, and show up in something equally impressive, but less likely to kill you, huh?" I pressed my hands together. "Please? For Margaery? And your new baby?"

Robb's eyes widened. "Wait, you mean she's-?!"

Robb actually looked about ready to collapse. I discretely held him up as I hugged him. I really should have gotten a picture of his face at the news... Like I'd promised Margaery.

I'd think of some way to make it up to her.

"Just got a raven this morning," I muttered. "Come on, Father, cool off..."

Robb shook, and then grinned. The biggest, dopiest grin in the known universe. I grinned back, and patted him on the back as he slowly regained his footing.

"I'm... I'm gonna be a father," Robb mumbled. I nodded.

"Yes... Yes you are," I said brightly. "And the best gift for your baby? Not dying in an airship."

"Uh, hello? I'd be flying it too," Eddie protested. I sighed and rolled my eyes, while privately wondering how many of my colloquialisms had infected the Westerosi lexicon. Something to worry about when we weren't all dead from ice zombies.

"Yes Eddie, and I don't want you to die from your flying deathtrap either," I said with a nod. "However! Robb's had a lot more of me shaking my head at him and going 'what did we learn'? than you. So he's better trained." I pulled back. "But! You are more than welcome to try flying above the _Seawolf_ to make our dramatic entrance better. All right?"

"I... I think I'll try that!" Eddie nodded. I nodded back, and clapped Robb on the shoulder. I guided my king and brother from another mother away, towards the docks leading to the launch from the _Seawolf.  
_ _ **  
**_"See you there, Eddie!" I called back. I sighed as I looked at Robb, who was smiling strangely. "You all right, Your Grace?"

"Yeah... Still... A baby," he just kept grinning like a dork. I chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder.

"We'll celebrate later. For now? We have a runner up king to deal with," I said. _ **  
**_

 **LXXXI: Of Kings, Wolves and Ravens, Part 6**

 _AC 300, Dragonstone, Blackwater Bay_

 **Theon Greyjoy  
** **\- - - - - -**

Dragonstone was pretty much the most depressing goddamned place I'd ever seen in my life. Yes, POW camps are pretty bad but those had basic sanitation. At least Northern ones.

This place seemed like it had been crafted by the guys behind Arkham Asylum: Creepy gargoyles everywhere, sharp angles and lines that seemed to go on, and everything was dark and dreary. And I swear I could see Gozerian terror dogs among some of the statues.

Ugh. That would just be my luck, wouldn't it? A medieval shithole like Westeros gets Gozer the Gozerian to pay it a visit: And me without my portable nuclear accelerators. Or an A-Bomb.

"Theon? What are you mumbling?" Robb asked. I sighed as I looked back to Robb. The launch we'd taken from the _Seawolf_ was closing on the dock. A Northern sailor was manning a Bolter at the front of the boat. There were Rocketfaust-armed sailors on the launch as well, all with weapons pointed at the troops waiting for us on the dock.

"Nothing," I replied. I looked over at Meera, who was looking a bit anxious. "How are you feeling, Captain Reed?"

"A little... Concerned," Meera admitted. "Some of the Crannogmen we brought along are... New. And..." She shifted uncomfortably. Robb smiled at her.

"Hero worshiping you?"

Meera nodded. "Yeah. It's... Kind of weird."

"Being paid that much attention? Yeah," Robb said with a nod, patting her on the shoulder. "I've been there. Trust me. Still... You can use the worship to get them to give you their best."

"After all, we can't see any of the Crannogmen who are, presumably, on Dragonstone right now," I said cheerfully. Meera sighed, and scowled up as the sailors tossed a rope to the guys waiting on the dock. They were in front of a man holding a banner with a flaming stag on it. It was obvious Stannis was waiting behind them.

"I can," she grumbled. "They're getting... What's that word, Theon?"

"... Spanked?" I suggested.

"I think she meant reprimanded," Robb muttered. He stepped up, as Ramsay and Dacey Mormont stepped up alongside him. We went up the gangplank, stopping in front of the guards.

"Well Stannis, you wanted me," Robb called out. "Let's hear what you have to say."

The armored guards moved aside, revealing the tall, straight form of Stannis Baratheon. I'd never actually seen him in person, but it was impossible to mistake him for anyone else. Even with the beard he wore. Especially with the beard he wore. It was strange though: He was missing a certain redhot witch.

"What I have to say, King Robb, is simple," Stannis announced, in a clear voice. "I surrender... And wish to discuss terms."

Stannis reached into a satchel, and tossed a small bag at our feet. Robb glanced at Ramsay and Dacey. Dacey nodded, and knelt down to take the bag. She opened it, and poured the contents out into her gloved hand. I stepped up to examine them carefully.

"... Breadcrumbs and salt," I confirmed.

"From a kinslayer, this means next to nothing," Robb stated flatly. "Where's your Scarlet Woman?"

Stannis... Twitched, just a bit. I raised my eyebrow, as Stannis cleared his throat.

"I have sent her back to Essos," Stannis stated. There was obviously a lot more going on with that though. "If you wish me to respect guest right, King Robb, that applies to _all_ guests."

Robb narrowed his eyes. "Then what I'm hearing is that you are _not_ turning her over to me, as outlined in my letter to you."

"No," Stannis stated. "I wish to discuss _terms,_ King Robb. And for the moment, I do not believe you are in a position to refuse me." The balding man looked at Robb with an iron gaze, which my brother from another mother met with equal steel. "After all... _Winter is coming,_ is it not?"

The emphasis he put on the House Stark's words... I felt a chill go down my spine. I glanced at Robb, and back at Stannis. Robb grimaced.

"... Your terms?" Robb demanded.

"Amnesty for the men under my command... My daughter, Shireen, is named as heiress of the Stormlands with Lord Davos Seaworth to serve as her regent," Stannis paused. "And I will go to the Wall and take the Black. We are both aware that I am needed more there than I am here."

Even Stannis's guards seemed surprised by that, though they tried not to give it away. They were very bad at hiding it.

"We need to talk," Robb said. Stannis nodded.

We pulled back a bit, Ramsay and Darcy keeping their weapons on Stannis. Meera was, as usual, nowhere to be seen. Which was comforting.

"Well?" Robb asked. "Do we trust him?"

I frowned. "We need Meera's report first..." I looked at a barrel on the dock. "Hey, Meera? Got an update?"

The barrel said nothing. I sighed, and shrugged over at Robb.

"I guess a barrel would be too obvious..."

"Yes, it would," Meera said, popping up from under the dock. Robb, admirably, didn't jump. I did. Ramsay just smirked as Dacey sighed in annoyance.

"Show off," Darcy muttered.

"Jealous," Meera muttered back. She looked up at me. "There's no sign of the Red Witch anywhere. His wife and daughter are here though. And so is Ser Davos." She looked at Robb. "However, she could be using some kind of magic shit to hide herself."

"Unlikely," I muttered. "He looks a bit... Rattled?"

How was it I could retain memories of my previous life so well after a decade? If it was even real. I still had my doubts. Right, focus...

"Rattled?" Asked Robb. I nodded.

"Yeah... As if his girlfriend just left him," I stated. I shrugged. "Which might as well be the case, given his relationship with his wife."

Robb frowned thoughtfully. He looked up at Stannis, who was still waiting. Robb sighed.

"We can't afford to have any more enemies," Robb muttered. He shook his head. He turned and strode forward, Dacey and Ramsay still covering him. He walked right up to Stannis, who stood his ground. Robb sighed, and shook his head.

"... It will take time to draw up the necessary contract paperwork," Robb said, "but your terms, as stated, are accepted. On one additional condition."

"Yes?" Stannis asked.

"Return of Captain Farrows and any other crewmembers of the _Venture,"_ Robb stated. "Unharmed. And alive."

Stannis nodded. "That is acceptable..." He nodded to Robb. "After all... A king's word is his bond, is it not?"

"We can stay that for one of us," Robb stated.

Stannis looked up at the blimps himself, his eyebrows rising. He shook his head.

"I may have surrendered, King Robb," Stannis stated, "but I remain a king myself. Even without a kingdom. In the end... All that remains... Is duty."

They actually shook hands, tightly grasping the other's wrists, and neither looked very happy about it. Good.

The dramatic moment though was a bit spoiled... As the loud buzz of internal combustion engines broke over the shore. Out of the mists, two airskiffs flew... And surprisingly not bursting into flames. They flew high over the walls of Dragonstone, circling. Stannis watched in amazement.

"I wondered when Eddie was going to get here," I commented. "He's a little late..."

"He'll have to work on it," Dacey observed.

I looked over at Ramsay, who was strangely silent. "Ramsay? Anything to contribute?"

Ramsay sighed. "No... I knew I wasn't going to get to kill anyone on this trip. So why show enthusiasm?"

"Creep people out?" I asked.

Ramsay considered... And grinned menacingly. That got the guards to back up in fear.

"There you go," I said with a nod.

 **LXXXII: Meanwhile, in Slaver's Bay Part 5**

 _AC 300,Yunkai, Slaver's Bay_

 **Kara Snow  
\- - - - - -**

Kara was trying hard to keep what food she could down, as she took deep breaths. She was being bathed by a few other servants, all wearing the same pitying look. She could read it in their faces, despite the language still being beyond her. She looked back at the mirror in the chamber, taking deeper breaths. Trying to stay calm.

Kara had been sold off to a man in a large, hot home built of red sandstone, along with Lucy and a few other Northerners. He had, at first, seemed almost kind despite the leashes he kept on them all. The home they were brought to was in Yunkai proper, a large red manse with a pretty little fountain in the courtyard. She'd been put to work in the blacksmith's shop, shoeing horses. Thankfully, not as a sex slave: She heard about Northern girls being highly prized for that. Even as a slave, rumors traveled and news spread.

The food was bad, the sleeping quarters were terrible, and if she so much as looked up at one of the men she served, she was struck. Backhanded, like men in the South had done to her mother. She had held back only because of Lucy: She was a servant in the manse itself, arranging flowers, and right by the master. Every time she acted out, Lucy was harmed in turn. She came back down to the slave quarters, bearing the marks from the master when Kara misbehaved and nothing when she was silent.

It was horrible. Kara didn't understand why the master did this. Why he stared at her, leered at her. She was his slave: Why didn't he just... Just take her? What was his game?

And then something happened. The master came down and told Lucy she would be sent off to the whore house he owned. Lucy had broke, pleading desperately, but the master was unmoved. He then looked over at Kara: She had been restraining herself from striking him. The master just smiled.

"You. Service me," he said, "and she," he pointed to Lucy, "stay here. Stay together, yes?"

The smile on his face... It said it all.

This place was all about oppression. The sun beat down on you when the slave master's whip wasn't. The glares of disdain from the masters, and the haunted looks on other girls. Younger girls. It was stifling, from the stinking, uncomfortable sleeping quarters to the horrible food. It was as though all of Yunkai was designed to drain the hope from you. Leave you a hollow husk of the person you were.

This was his way of doing that.

"Apply the oils," said one of the slave women, holding out a pot of oil to her. It smelled of vegetables and flowers, and made Kara want to retch. Not that the smell was unpleasant, but because it was familiar. It reminded her of what her mother had sworn would never be her life.

 _And here I am...  
_ _ **  
**_She rubbed the oils over her body, between her breasts and thighs liberally. She carefully avoided her ever present collar, which had been the only thing she'd been allowed to keep from the quarters. One of the other slave girls combed her hair, sleek and golden. In the mirror, she was looking back at a beautiful woman, surrounded by finery and servants. The city glowed underneath the moon and starlight behind her, an exotic scene far from her regular life.

She remembered when that had been a fantasy of hers, as a little girl. The memory twisted in her gut, and she took more deep breaths to calm herself.

"You. Out," the master barked. The native slavewomen rose and departed, not looking at Kara. Kara remained sitting, still staring at herself in the mirror. The master came up behind her, and cupped her breasts with a lewd grin. Kara took a deep breath.

"There it is," the master hissed. "That look of resignation... Of defeat..." He continued to roughly grope and feel her up, and Kara winced. The master chuckled darkly.

"Yes... That's what I was after," he cooed. "You proud Northern girls... So strong. So defiant... It's no fun to fuck a docile whore, no. Breaking one though? Yesss... That's how it should be," he continued. "From the moment I bought you... I have been waiting for this... Hate me all you like... It just makes me _harder..._ "

Kara reached up, slipping her hands behind the back of her head. She lifted up her hair, and the master took advantage of this to bite her ear. Her breath hitched as the master laughed again.

"And in time... You will appreciate me... Become just what I want you to be," he growled. He sniffed her hair, and made a face. "Ugh... Didn't they wash your hair?"

"They did," Kara said with forced calm, as she pushed a package out from under her collar. As fast as she could, she shoved the mass into his face. The master gagged, and Kara spun around to pin him to the floor. She kept the mass pressed tight against his mouth and nose, as he gagged and tried to cry out. It did him no good: The substance soaking the hair mass was doing its job, and soon his struggles ceased entirely.

"That was formaldehyde you smelled," she said softly, standing up to avoid inhaling any of the substance. She seized the mass and held it far away from her mouth. She shuddered a bit, and yanked the master's clothing off. She pulled it on, and ran to the door. She opened it up, trying to put a coquettish look on her face for the guard waiting outside...

Only to meet Thom, one of the other slaves, and Lucy. Both were armed, and the guard was dead at their feet. Kara took a deep breath and blew it out.

"Took you fuckers long enough," she said. Lucy hugged her tightly.

"Did he-?" Lucy tried, but Kara shook her head.

"I dealt with him," she said. Thom nodded. Kara frowned. "Where'd you get the swords?"

"They were smuggled in to us from outside," Thom said. "There's a whole army out there! Demanding the liberation of the slaves! There's a Westeros woman with them... With dragons!"

Kara gaped. "Are... Are you serious? That can't be right: There aren't any dragons anymore!"

"Whether she has them or not is irrelevant," Thom pointed out. "There's a rebellion starting and we're missing out on it... What do you want to do, Kara?"

"Me?" Kara asked. "Why are you asking me?"

"You are kind of... You know, 'take charge'?" Lucy said.

"Is that a nice way of saying 'I'm bossy'?" Kara asked dryly. "If you didn't want to listen to me, you didn't have to."

"No, but we did, and we're out," Lucy pointed out. Kara snorted.

"I barely had anything to do with that-"

"Look, the rebellion is here and we should make a decision on what to do about it," Thom said. "So...?"

Kara nodded. She knelt down to the downed guard, and took his sword. She swung it around experimentally, both Lucy and Thom backing away.

"You really don't know how to use a sword," Thom commented.

"Oh, and you do, Assistant Carpenter?" Lucy asked sarcastically. Thom shrugged.

"Fair enough."

"I think as long as we stick the pointy end in the bad guys, we'll be fine," Kara said with a nod. "Now let's go find someone who actually knows how to fight and back them up!"

 **Mirror Notes:** I hope the author, AndrewJTalon, does see the reviews everyone leaves him, but for everyone who writes "keep it up" he's certainly keeping at it. I've currently posted every chapter that he's written, and all the ones others have added to the story (that he considers canon, and a part of the story), but he still has more to go before he's finished Volume One, and continues on to Volume Two. Expect chapter updates to slow down until there are at least 4000 words written, and I'll throw another chapter together.

If you want to send him PMs of encouragement, here is his account https colon / www dot fanfiction dot net/u/6754/Andrew-Joshua-Talon I'm sure he'd love to hear from you. Alternatively, the first chapter, up the top, has the url for where the story is continuing, and you can get the chapters, and byplay as they come.


	37. LXXXIII , LXXXIV

**LXXXIII: Meanwhile, in Slaver's Bay Part 6**

 _AC 300,Yunkai, Slaver's Bay_  
 **  
Daenerys Targaryen**

The palace was utterly decadent in every single way, Daenerys observed, as she stood in the throne room. Gold lined the very walls, shining between silken banners that shined with colors of every description. Shields of bronze, silver and other metals were over the red lined throne, emulating the sun shining behind the ruler of the city. The floors were marble, soft and cool beneath her booted feet.

"... I want it all gone," Daenerys decided. "All of it. Melted down, sold, and handed out."

Grey Worm nodded. "It will be done, Khaleesi," he said. He issued orders to several servants, who moved quickly to carry them out. Daenerys let them go about their work, walking through one of the gilded doors to a balcony outside. She looked out over Yunkai, the red city gleaming in the early morning sunlight. A few fires still burned from the overthrow, but the smoke was receding bit by bit. She could see ships sailing in the harbor, hear snippets of cries from crowds.

 _"_ _Mhysa, mhysa, mhysa…"  
_  
She couldn't keep her smile off her face. Despite everything she still had to do, despite all the challenges she knew she was facing… She felt hope.

A hope only magnified as she spied the three forms of her dragons, flying in the sky in the distance. Hunting. She beamed at the sight. This evening, she should treat them all to scratches and fresh meat and-

"Khaleesi," spoke a familiar voice. Daenerys looked behind her, and her smile widened just a bit at Ser Jorah standing there solemnly.

"Ser Jorah. How fares Ser Daario?"

Jorah winced, only slightly. Daenerys hid her frown, promising to follow up on this information later. "He fares… Well, Khaleesi. He is not the reason for my arrival."

The older knight stepped aside, and motioned forward. Flanked by Unsullied, a small group of men and women of fair skin walked out onto the balcony with Daenerys. All dressed in various slave rags, yet standing tall and proud unlike so many of those she had liberated. At the front was a tall woman with reddish blonde hair and freckles, with hard stone gray eyes and a chain around her neck. The chain bore a small, gear-shaped medallion. Daenerys' eyes lit up, as the woman spoke.

"Ah… Miss Khaleesi, ma'am," she began in Westerosi, "I am Kara Snow. Of His Majesty's Army of the North Engineers."

"They were staging their own break out at the time of our assault," Ser Jorah said solemnly. "And requested the right to speak to you directly."

Daenerys nodded, keeping her features serene and almost cold. Yet to finally meet someone from the New North in person…!

"We are pleased to meet you, Lady Snow," Daenerys spoke warmly but formally. Kara snorted, not able to hide a bit of incredulousness. A mousy young woman with black hair and the eyes of a Braavosi hid a smirk, as a tall blonde man with a scraggly beard elbowed her to keep her quiet.

"Ah… Begging your pardon, Khaleesi, but I'm no lady," Kara said. Daenerys nodded.

"Then let us continue this discussion in quieter chambers," Daenerys said, "without ceremony. You speak for your group, I take it?"

Kara sighed, looking as though Daenerys had hit upon a painful truth. The fact the rest of the Northerners were murmuring softly but deferring to Miss Snow made the fact plain.

"I am… Do, I mean," Kara said. Daenerys nodded.

"Very well. Ser Jorah, see to it that the rest of her people are well taken care of. Fed, watered, and given accommodation," Daenerys ordered. Jorah nodded, far stiffer in his stance than usual. A number of the Northerners kept their eyes on him, and hands near their weapons.

"At once, Khaleesi," Jorah said with a nod. He turned and headed out in front, allowing the other Northerners to follow him, shuffling into the throne room. Daenerys nodded to Kara, and turned. She walked smoothly, hearing the clunk of Kara's large leather boots on the marble.

They retired to an adjacent room, uncommonly plain in decor compared to the rest of the palace. With a table and two chairs sitting on a small pyramid. It was probably meant to welcome visitors to discuss serious matters, or to insult unwelcome guests. Daenerys paid neither of these any heed, and took the seat across from Kara. The Northerner woman sat down in the other chair, looking wary.

"Do you want any water?" Daenerys asked. "Any food?" She motioned to Missendai, who had been shadowing her every move as always. Some bread and wine were brought up, and set on the table. Kara Snow carefully took the bread and salt, examined it, and then took several savage bites out of the loaf. She drank some wine to wash it down, and made a face as she released the bottle from her lips.

"Ugh… Nasty stuff, this wine," Kara said. "Aftertaste is like shit."

"It is not my favorite brand, no," Daenerys admitted gently, taking a cup of the wine herself with a bit of a wince. Having had to drink Dothraki alcohol, the wine was nothing for her to handle.

Daenerys waited for Kara to have her fill: She ate like a starving woman, table manners barely an afterthought. Kara finished some bread, and looked up at Daenerys with just a hint of shame. She cleared her throat.

"Scuse me," Kara said, "haven't had anything to eat since yesterday."

"Don't stop on my account," Daenerys said earnestly. "I have seen far worse."

Kara shrugged, and continued her eating. After more bread, some meat and fruit were swiftly consumed, Kara Snow leaned back in her chair, much more at ease than before. Daenerys sipped her wine a bit, studying the other woman in interest now that she wasn't just a blur of crumbs and grasping hands.

She was taller than Daenerys; only a few inches shorter than Ser Jorah himself. She had freckles across her cheeks, which were rounded like duck eggs on her face. Her chin was broad and had a mild cleft, but her stature and curves left no doubt as to her gender.

"So… Kara Snow. How did you and your company come to be here?" Daenerys asked.

Kara looked at Daenerys with a sigh. "Captured, and sold into slavery by King Joffrey's forces… Miss Khaleesi," she added. Daenerys' eyebrows rose higher.

"I had read about it in the Despoiler, but to see it confirmed," Daenerys shook her head in horror. "Did not the Septons revolt over such repugnant conduct?"

"Considering they were bought by Lannister Gold, too, they didn't say a thing," Kara snorted. "As to how the regular people reacted…?" She shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, Miss Khaleesi. I've been out of the loop for a while now… How did you get copies of the Despoiler out here anyway?"

"I am told that excess newspapers are sold to cities in Essos from the North," Daenerys said, "and make their way here. The news is much out of date, but still very useful."

"Well then," Kara said with a nod, "thank you for everything, Miss Khaleesi… But frankly, I didn't come here to talk news. I was hoping to get passage back to Westeros, for me and my people."

Daenerys almost smiled at the direct tone of the Northerner woman. Tall and proud like a noble but with none of the inbuilt respect. What a place it must be, now!

"I understand, and at the end of this if you wish to leave I will give you money enough for the journey," Daenerys said. "However… I have something to ask you and your company."

"What?" Kara asked.

"I would like your help," Daenerys said, "in establishing Northern-style reforms in these cities. As well as establishing good relations with King Robb."

Kara blinked. "Why?" She shrugged her arms out, as though to encompass the city they sat in between her shoulders. "We're just a bunch of soldiers and mechanics and scouts-"

"All people of the North," Daenerys said earnestly. "Normal people, who know first hand how it all works! How the changes benefit everyone! I have no one else on this continent who can provide me with that vital of information!"

"And knowledge of our weapons and technology too, I take it?" Kara asked dryly.

"If you wish to share that, then yes, I would like that very much," Daenerys said with a nod.

Kara frowned. "To what end though? You have your empire already, Miss Khaleesi. I don't see why we should help you. We're grateful for the help, of course, but we don't belong here."

"Neither do I," Daenerys said. "In fact, my ultimate goal and yours are very similar: To return home."

"What, leave all this behind?" Kara asked. Daenerys shook her head.

"I have my empire, yes," Daenerys nodded, "or at least the beginning of one… But I want my kingdoms back."

Kara stared blankly at Daenerys. Her eyes blinked rapidly.

"... Wait… You're… That Daenerys Targaryen?" Kara asked in disbelief. Daenerys found herself a bit amused.

"Is it a common name where you're from?" Daenerys asked with a wry smile. Kara shook her head, and held her hands up.

"Look… If you're seeking revenge for what the Starks did to your father-"

"I'm not," Daenerys said plainly, holding her hands up in equal supplication. "As a matter of fact...That is the last thing on my mind. I know of the Mad King… And my companions, Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah, have confirmed what he did. Revenge is not my motivation."

"The Iron Throne?" Kara asked, shaking her head. "Why would we help you take that? Our own king doesn't want it, so why should we?"

"Simple," Daenerys said, "in the aftermath of the war, with the North victorious, you are left with seven kingdoms all divided. All ripe for civil war and destruction. All easily split apart." She took a deep breath. "I do not see it as my destiny to rule over all seven kingdoms… I see it as duty. A solemn duty, to make up for the crimes of my family and the misrule suffered by the people since then. Is that not why you took up your arms in the civil war?"

Kara sighed. "Granted… But just a few of us-?"

"There are reports of possibly hundreds of Northern prisoners, still alive in the Slave Cities," Daenerys said, springing her trump card. "You are the first to make direct contact. With your help, we could find them all and bring them home. Just like you."

"And in return, you'd want us to help you put us back under the Iron Throne?" Kara sneered. Daenerys shook her head.

"No… Not under it. A part of it. Under a leader who would work to earn your trust, and would respect the incredible accomplishments your people have achieved." Daenerys stared intently at Kara, who stared back with a mild wince.

"I… I don't know why you're asking me, Miss Khaleesi," Kara said. "I'm just a bastard daughter, a Gearwife for the North… I'm no lord or lady-"

"And yet your people follow you," Daenerys said, "they trust you."

Kara huffed. "Just because I worked as a second to the Bolton's heir does not make me leadership material. It doesn't make me responsible for everyone else the Lannisters sold like chattel!"

"No," Daenerys said with a nod, "but are you willing to leave them to their fates?"

Kara scowled. "No! I… I won't!"

"Then all I ask is your help," Daenerys said. "All I ask… Is a chance to prove myself worthy of being your queen."

Kara stared at her. Daenerys smiled softly.

Kara frowned deeply. "... You really want this, then?"

Daenerys nodded. "I do."

"... I won't betray my King," Kara said sternly. Daenerys nodded.

"I will never ask that of you."

"Words," Kara sneered. Daenerys nodded again, licking her lips.

"Just words."

"And if I say no?" Kara asked. Daenerys nodded to the door.

"Go out there. Inform Grey Worm that you are taking your people home. He will give you the funds necessary for that. No questions asked."

Kara was silent, crossing her arms under her breasts.

Daenerys smiled back, gently, knowingly.

"I started out with nothing… An exile from my home before I was born. Going from place to place, begging. That was not the lowest point. That was when I was lost in the desert, starving. My son had died in childbirth. My husband died and was abandoned by his followers. With just my few followers, one knight, and three infant dragons who could barely look after themselves. And now, here I am. Just as you started with nothing… And are now here. Both women seeking to go home." She extended her hand. "Who else but you could I ask to help me with this?"

Kara frowned a bit longer. She looked at Daenerys' hand, and then up to her face. Her mouth was a thin line.

"... If you haven't impressed me before I get all the prisoners back, we're leaving," Kara stated. Daenerys nodded.

"I understand."

Only then did Kara reach out her hand and accept Daenerys'. The Khaleesi nodded approvingly.

"Thank you," she said. Kara snorted.

"Don't thank me yet… We haven't even gotten to the hard part."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Daenerys replied with an even smile.

* * *

 **LXXXIV:Of Kings, Wolves and Ravens, Part 7**

 _AC 300, Dragonstone, Blackwater Bay_

 **Theon Greyjoy**

The halls of Dragonstone were as desolate as their reputation had made them out to be. Bare of decoration or prizes. It had all the hallmarks of luxury degraded by time and neglect. Yet it was kept clean, orderly. Like someone keeping to the basic standards of civilized living, despite the accommodations.

In other words, it was perfect Stannis. A creature of duty in all ways, no matter how small. Even brought us into the Chamber of the Painted Table with all the grace and dignity of a King. He even allowed us our guards, who searched the room thoroughly before allowing us in and standing outside. Stannis only had one man with him: A swarthy, bearded man with a kind face and a sailor's tan, one of his hands sporting shorter fingers than the other.

Clearly, this was Davos Seaworth, who was looking surprisingly calm given the situation.

The doors shut, and Robb and myself stood in the silence Stannis provided, only the sounds of crackling torches filling the air. He watched us, and we watched him. I grew bored of this fast, and my eyes wandered the chamber.

It was sculpted more than carved, like being inside an ornate ancient vase. Yet it was dully shaded. The only real spot of color in the meeting room was the ancient map table in the center: Bright hues of red, green, blue, yellow and white all combined to map out the continent of Westeros. I couldn't help but hungrily look over every line and word and etching across the ancient artifact, a map drawn from the air.

It was both strangely familiar, and yet hauntingly alien in equal measure.

"I left little interpretation in my terms, King Robb," Stannis said, his long shadow crossing over the table. "I take the Black. You get your men back. My daughter is retained as Lady Paramount of the Stormlands, who will ally with you-"

"The biggest question, Stannis, is why," Robb asked. I glanced at him, surprised and a bit proud. Robb was actually being distrustful and sensible! For him, this was a somewhat rare thing outside of a battlefield. "For all I know, you could be your Scarlet Woman in disguise!"

Davos shook his head. "I assure you, my Lords… Your Grace," he said, nodding to Robb, "this is the true King, Stannis Baratheon."

"Calling yourself the true King after the Iron Throne has been rendered powerless does not speak of compromise," Robb returned, "only resistance. The Wall is a critical defense for the realms of Man, now more than ever. Why would I allow you anywhere near there?"

Stannis shook his head. "Because even without a throne, the duty of a King is to protect his Realm. Even when his throne is taken by an outsider, the duty still remains. This is something we both understand, King Robb." He gazed at us levelly, using his height advantage over us slightly. Robb glared back, utterly defiant. I shared a gaze with Davos, and he let slip just a hint of exasperation. I gave him a commiserating look back.

Robb, for his part, looked considerate… Before he slowly nodded.

"As you say... But words are easy. What actions have you taken to earn these... Terms?"

Stannis reached under the Painted Table, and held up a bag. He dropped it on the table, and the contents spilled across the North and Riverlands: Black pieces of dragonglass.

"Even your thunderarms will be insufficient, without this," Stannis stated. "And you need good commanders. You may keep your seat in Winterfell, King Robb. As long as it lasts... The Realms of men, however, need all the help they can get. The fact I am alive is proof enough of this. The fact your forces are eager to return home is proof enough."

Stannis may have been rigid and inflexible, but he was smart. Damn smart. I looked over at Robb, who was silent. He looked at me.

"... And the Scarlet Woman?" Robb asked.

"I do not know where she is... But she fights against the Darkness. Despite her crimes, that is what is needed now more than ever," Stannis continued. He looked between us. "And the price I ask... Is minuscule next to that."

Robb motioned to me, and we adjourned to a nearby alcove. Stannis and Davos maintained a polite distance. Robb looked at me intently.

"Well? What do you think?" He asked. I sighed.

"... The fewer problems we have down here, the better," I said. "Though to be fair... I don't know how much sway we can bring to bear with any Baratheons. After everything that's happened."

"I have some... Thoughts on that," Robb said. I raised my eyebrow.

"How stupid are these thoughts? Range of one to ten?"

"Theon," Robb growled. I held my hands up.

"I'm just saying!" I protested. Robb sighed and shook his head.

"I don't like it any more than you do, Theon... But the worst part is, he's right," Robb said. "We can't afford to stay here any longer than we have to."

"Right," I said with a sigh. "And if the Stormlands... Don't work out?"

"We'll handle that when it happens," Robb said. "For now? We trust Stannis. Unless you have a better idea?"

I grimaced. "I have... A few-"

"How long to enact them?" Robb pressed. I rubbed the back of my head.

"A few months-?"

"Time we don't have," Robb said. I groaned.

"Robb, do we really need to-!"

"Theon!" Robb said flatly. "If it comes to the worst... I will handle it. But we cannot afford any delays. Do you not agree?"

"I..." I sighed and nodded. "I guess..."

I looked over at Stannis and Davos. They were conversing quietly as well. I couldn't help but wonder what they had in mind. If it would involve pain for us.

Despite us having guards all over the place... I still felt danger, and didn't know where it was coming from. Robb broke from me, and walked back to the Painted Table. Stannis and Davos looked back at us, as I stood at Robb's side.

"Lord Stannis... I accept your terms," Robb said. "We will discuss the logistics of it now." He looked over at me. "Theon, see to the release of the captives,"

Stannis looked over at Davos, and nodded to him. The former smuggler nodded back, and looked over to me.

"If you will, My Lord," Davos asked, gesturing to the door. I looked over at Robb, who nodded back to me. I thinned my lips, then nodded back. Davos opened the door and I waited for Davos to go out first, before I followed. I left the door open behind me, Robb and Stannis continuing their discussion. Davos and I continued down the hallways, silent for a time. I looked over at him.

"So… I'm glad he's being reasonable," I said. Davos nodded slowly.

"He is a just man," Davos stated simply, but with real conviction.

"More after his Scarlet Witch left?" I asked. Davos glanced at me, and I shrugged. "Hey, I _am_ a genius."

"And rather indelicate about it," Davos observed wryly. I gave him a little smile, and shrugged.

"Maybe a little. Mind giving me the story: Hand to Hand?"

"You're just asking me that? Right out of the blue?" Davos asked in some disbelief. We descended the stairs into the dungeons, the light growing dimmer. I shrugged.

"The war is over. We have a vested interest in helping you," I said. "Please understand, Lord Davos, we came down here and never want to do that again. The more information we have, the less likely that'll happen."

"So you truly mean to say your troops will leave?" Davos demanded, "your soldiers and warships will withdraw? You will leave _all this_ … Alone?"

"As much as we can, yes," I said with a nod. "The whole point of this thing, the entire goal, is to change Westeros for the better."

Davos glared at me as we stopped just outside the dungeons. "By banishing a great man? By burning down the throne and shattering a kingdom that has lasted for three hundred years?"

"And everyone was going to just line up and follow Stannis?" I asked wryly. "After what he did to his brother?"

The smuggler glared at me. I sighed, and rubbed my face.

"Look," I said, "I know this isn't easy… For any of us. But we're going to have to work together to get to the future."

"... You honestly believe that?" Davos asked flatly, still paused outside the door. I shrugged.

"Well… We could have destroyed this entire castle, and killed everyone in it if we wished. Doesn't that count for something?"

"... It's a start," Davos said. He turned to me with a glare. "And _that's all_."

I nodded. "Fair enough," I said quietly.

He sighed. He then opened the door, and entered the dungeons. "Guards! Unlock the doors! Get the prisoners outside! They're going home!"

There were cheers, and cries of joy: Especially when they saw me. I gave the men a smile, as the locks were undone and they filed out, touching and talking to me. I reassured them all, that King Robb had not forgotten them and they were going home.

All the while though, Davos watched in silence. I grimaced internally: Developing a good relationship with Davos seemed the key to the Stormlands, for the time being. I regretted never contacting him before… To be honest though, this was probably the best outcome I could have for now.

We made our way up to the courtyard, Davos walking at the back. I strode by him, both of us silent. We entered into the dim daylight, the Northern sailors quickly joining the growing number of Northern troops encroaching on the castle as the servants looked on or ate the rations we'd brought them. A runner came up to Davos, and pulled the lord aside. He whispered in his ear, and Davos looked over at me. He then heaved a great sigh.

"Lord Theon," Davos said with great reluctance, "the Princess Shireen desires… An audience with you." He glanced at the troops, and back at me. "I trust… You can make the time?"

I scratched the back of my head, and then smiled. "I certainly can," I said, as polite as I could be. Davos nodded, still glaring but… Somehow softer? I didn't know what to make of him. I suppose an infamous smuggler like him had to be good at hiding his emotions when necessary. God knew I had to learn that fast… And still wasn't that great at it.

"Then come… Please," Davos managed. I nodded, and followed him.

We ascended the steps into the keep of Dragonstone. I saw a few fluttering birds from the upper levels, but no one obvious in sight. I managed a small smirk: Meera was going to be giving those Crannogmen some hell for that level of sloppiness.

We entered a tower attached to the Keep, through a heavily bolted door. We stepped into a simple room, a bed in a corner and bookshelves everywhere. That wasn't as surprising.

What was surprising were the posters on the wall: Advertisement posters for Oldtown Mechanicals, Corvise Boots, and other Northern business concerns that had favored colorful artwork for their signage. Scraps of the Westeros Despoiler and Maiden's Monthly. A few photos, obviously from a small pinhole camera, of things around Dragonstone. A set of binoculars, a microscope, and a few other odds and ends that we'd traded to the South in small numbers for years before the war.

On a table in the center of the room were stacked books: All books written by me. I couldn't help a little chuckle as I read the titles. Many of them I knew… And a lot of them I didn't.  
 _  
Of course I'd write a guide to taking care of dragons while drunk,_ I thought. Davos cleared his throat, loudly.

"Just a second!" A young girl called from a nearby room. She quickly bustled in, wearing what appeared to be her best dress. She had brown hair hanging around her face, and wide blue eyes. She would have been fairly plain, maybe a bit cute… If not for the dragon-like scales covering part of her face and throat.

She grinned at me, her face filled with pure joy. "Theon? Theon Greyjoy?" She asked. I nodded, turning it into a bow with a smile.

"I am. And you must be the Lady Shireen Baratheon," I said. I rose, and the young would-be princess beamed. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Believe me, my lord, the pleasure is all mine!" Shireen said happily, reaching out and taking my hand. "Please, please! Sit down! We have so much to talk about!"

I glanced back at Davos. He seemed caught between his disapproval and a bit of mirth. I sighed and allowed myself a more genuine smile as Shireen eagerly began talking about her books.

Maybe I hadn't made a great impression on the Regent of the Stormlands… But there was always the heiress.


	38. Chapter 39

**LXXXV: The Martell Perspective**

 _AC 300, The_ Red Star _, Blackwater Bay  
_  
 **Arianne Martell**

Her father had not spoken much to her since her arrival in Sunspear. Indeed, she had come in just as her father was prepared to leave for King's Landing. She had barely made it onboard the _Red Star_ before they had departed. They hadn't had proper accommodations so she had bunked with the ladies in waiting. And there she had stayed, for a day or two, her father avoiding her...

But there were few places to hide on a ship, even a ship this large. So with the morning of the third day, she found him standing in the captain's quarters, looking over a map. She leaned over herself, eyeing the same details as he did, and waited.

"It is rude to look over another's shoulder while they are working," Doran replied softly.

"It is also rude to ignore one's daughter for two days, when she is on the same ship as you," Arianne said, with her full impudence on display. She usually kept it hidden, but her annoyance override her usual good judgement. Doran glared at the map, still not looking her way.

"You do not have the monopoly on rudeness, child," he growled out. "When you and your uncle so _flagrantly_ disobey me!" He turned away to glare out the windows in the back of the _Red Star,_ his hands behind his back and clenched together. "When you make me party to alliances without my say so or authority!" He stalked behind the desk in the captain's chambers, and slammed his hand down on the wood hard. Arianne didn't jump, just barely. Even when her father's glare met her, she met his gaze as evenly as she could.

"You and your Uncle have embroiled us in this war, placing obligations on me that could have easily endangered all of us! Endangered yourself!" He shook his head furiously, his eyes narrowed like spikes of obsidian. "Now everything has been forced out of my hands! I am beholden to your actions and Oberyn's! Do you have any idea how badly this could end?! How much pain and destruction this might cause us? And our people?"

Arianne slowly nodded back, clenching and unclenching her fists.

"And more than that... More than _that,"_ Doran continued angrily, "it is nothing more than a naked attempt by you to gain power! Power through the Greyjoy! A man so dangerous he has upended the entirety of Westeros!"

"That hasn't stopped you from taking advantage of his inventions, has it?" Asked Arianne coolly, raising her eyebrow. Her father glared at her, but she continued. "After all, it's not hard to see where the _Red Star_ got her design, is it? And those maps? From the Northern Cartographer's Guild? The compass? And I notice, your gout has cleared up. You are in good shape, Father: Courtesy of whom?"

"Accepting the benefits of their advances is not the same as accepting everything else!" Doran thundered. "And you got me embroiled in this! That fact has not changed! Have you any idea what the consequences might be?!"

He slammed his fist on the table, again. Arianne kept her calm though. She gazed at him levelly, making her gaze that of ice.

"I know that because of our actions, House Martell is at the table of this victory," stated Arianne. "If we hadn't acted, how well do you think we would have fared in the aftermath of the war? Turning up our noses at the new superpower on this continent?"

Doran growled. "It isn't that simple-!"

"All I know, all I see is that you are berating me for ensuring House Martell survives this conflict!" Arianne hissed. "You think we're children!"

"You ARE CHILDREN!" Doran shouted. "You had _no right_ to go against me! To go against my orders!"

Arianne glared, something snapping inside her.

"Your _orders_ would have left us obsolete! Your _orders_ would have led to our destruction! And would have gotten us _nowhere!"_ She fairly shrieked back at him. "You always urged _caution,_ but now I see it is nothing more than _fear!"  
_  
Doran raised his hand, and for a wild moment Arianne feared her father would strike her. He pulled his hand back, taking deep breaths. He looked down at the table, gripping the edges tightly. Arianne took her own deep breaths, as she became aware of the pounding in her chest.

"... Father," she tried, moving closer to him. She reached out to his hands, such large hands that had always comforted her in the past. He made to pull them away, but she grabbed them hard. "Father, please... I realize this isn't what you wanted. I realize that... But what else was I supposed to do? What were _we_ supposed to do?"

Doran remained silent. Arianne sighed angrily.

"You taught me to stay back and plan carefully... But you also told me to always take opportunities when they arrived. To not hold back, when it was important." She sighed. "I know this is not how you imagined this... How you imagined our revenge, our entry back into power... But what other options did we have? The North has proven themselves the horse to hitch ourselves to. And after the Lannisters tried to murder us all... What else could I have done?"

Doran heaved a great sigh, the anger leaving him like dawn shining on the desert.

"... I taught you too well, didn't I?" He asked. Arianne gave him a small smile.

"Very well, Father."

Doran looked aside. "... All my life, caution has been the one thing to keep us safe. To keep our family in power. Now, all this has happened... The world is changing, so quickly... I wonder if Tywin Lannister felt this way, just before he fell from the Tower of the Hand."

"We are on the water here," Arianne said gently. Doran smirked.

"And now... I imagine you will be requesting that I make you my heir again, hm?"

Arianne flushed. "Well... I am rethinking that." At Doran's look, she smiled. "The Northerners have a habit of smashing through everything we thought was practical. What we thought was rational, or even sane..."

Doran nodded. "Then it is good the maddest of all of us befriended them." He looked at Arianne kindly, as he held her hands in his. "If the Greyjoy meets my standards... I will be happy to make the arrangements."

Arianne smiled. "Good... I sense another opportunity might be slipping away," she spoke. She worried her lower lip. "There is one other matter... What of Myrcella Lannister?"

Doran sighed, suddenly looking old and worn out. "She vanished," he said. "I have sent the Sand Snakes to search for her... But given who I suspect took her, I do not have great hopes."

Arianne frowned deeply. "Who? Who do you think took her?"

"I can't prove it," Doran said, his eyes distant, "but all I know is that Euron Greyjoy's ship was near Sunspear when she vanished, and men with the one-eyed crow were in our city at the time. And I can think of no one else who would be that daring."

"But... Why?" Asked Arianne, confused. Doran smiled.

"I do not know... But I imagine that asking the Greyjoy might be the best way to find out..."

\- - - - - - -

 **LXXXVI: Tick and Tock**

 _AC 300, Dragonstone, Blackwater Bay_

 **Theon Greyjoy**

I managed to disentangle myself from Shireen's eager questions, and took to wandering the castle. The ancient ruins born from the Targaeryans were dark and menacing still, and yet... There was something else. Something there. Something I couldn't put my finger on. Something... That I had forgotten.

You know that feeling you get from forgetting something, and not being able to recall what it was or where you left it? But knowing, all the while, it was here. Where you are, or where you were. That feeling was threatening to drive me mad. And in this place? That was not a good sign.

I wasn't entirely sure where I was going, or what I'd find when I get there. Which corners to take, which hallways to walk... None of it mattered as I took step after step.

After enough time, I came to a small courtyard. Hidden away in the depths of the castle, there was almost nothing growing in it. Dark, desolate... Save for one thing. A small, withered looking tree, barely sprouting. But it was impossible to mistake it for anything else.

A weirwood tree. I walked up to it, and knelt down in front of it. I reached out, and gently touched the bark. I closed my eyes, focused, silent...

... Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I sighed, and pulled my hand back. I looked down at the thin, nearly lifeless soil that the tree grew in.

"You act as though something miraculous was supposed to happen," someone spoke. I started and looked up at the tall figure of Stannis Baratheon, his long cloak waving in the breeze. I shrugged.

"I don't know... I've never experienced one," I said with a shrug. "My Lord..."

"You maintain the pretense, despite everything," Stannis stated. "You and your King. As though this was merely a game."

I chuckled a bit. "You're not a very good diplomat, my Lord."

Stannis almost seemed... Amused by that. As much as he could. Or perhaps he was constipated: It was hard to tell. "And I suppose your Lady Honn learned from you?"

"She mostly did it herself," I said, with a smile. Stannis didn't return it, so I kept smiling. "So... Do you think you'll ever talk about the Red Lady? Why she really departed?"

Stannis stared at me. "What makes you think that there is anything else to tell?"

I shrugged. "There's always something else to tell. After all... This is a world of secrets. Of layers. No one here is exactly what he appears... Or she," I observed.

"The world should not be that way," Stannis stated, almost stubbornly. I chuckled, and rubbed the back of my head.

"Yeah... Well, it is. So what else can we do... But build a better tomorrow?" I asked. Stannis stared at me, his eyes as sharp as the dragonglass all over his island.

"If the Others come over the Wall... There will be no tomorrows, better or otherwise," Stannis stated. "Can your weapons destroy them, as easily as men?"

I looked back at the weirwood tree, and heaved a great sigh. "I'll have to read Jon's full report, but even then...?" I shook my head. "We'll see."

I had to believe we could win. I had to. Beyond any doubts of mine, I had to believe.

I looked over at Stannis. "What is a weirwood tree doing here, anyway?"

"It was a gift from one of the Lords Stark, as I recall," said Stannis, looking almost grateful for the change in conversation. Or perhaps he needed to break wind. So many possibilities. "The Targaryan King at the time had it shuffled over to Dragonstone, for his heir to appreciate the faiths of others in his kingdom. It was forgotten... Yet unlike the other plants here, it has endured." Stannis looked over at the tree, with a grudging respect on his face.

"Why didn't you burn it?" I asked. "You burned the statues of the Seven, after all."

"I did," Stannis said. "Yet this... I do not believe, but I respect it enough to allow it to grow." He gazed over the small tree. "Just enough."

"I suppose it gives us all hope, if just a bit," I admitted softly.

"Hope," Stannis spoke softly, "is all we have, in the end."

I looked up at Stannis, blinking in disbelief. Stannis was staring intently at the tree, before he nodded to me.

"We must be going," he said. "You should be with your King... I must bid goodbye to my family." He turned and walked, his cloak waving behind him. I watched him for a while, and sighed softly. I slowly stood up, brushing my trousers off. I looked down at the tree.

"... I hope I have more left than koans and pop culture quotes," I said softly. The wind picked up, and the leaves waved.

" _We all have more than we think,"_ a voice spoke in the courtyard. I jumped, and looked around frantically, my gun out. I saw no one, nothing. I stayed silent, searching furiously.

"... Meera?" I asked.

The gray clad Crannogwoman popped out from on top of a gargoyle overlooking the courtyard. "Yes?"

"Was... Was there anyone else in here with me? Besides Stannis?" I asked. Meera stared at me, worried.

"No... No one."

I looked around, slowly holstering my gun.

"Theon? Are you all right?" She asked.

I slowly nodded. "Fine! Fine... Let's go."

I turned and headed for the door, trying very hard not to look back at the weirwood tree. Yet all the time, I could not help feeling eyes on my back... And not the usual eyes following my every movement.

\- - - - - -

 **LXXXVII: Meanwhile, in Slaver's Bay Part 7**

 _AC 300,Yunkai, Slaver's Bay_

 **Kara Snow**

It was somewhat appropriate, Kara guessed, for her to receive the manse of her deceased former master. Getting many of the servants to work here was also relatively easy, with actual pay and good treatment gaining their loyalty. She still longed for a gun, but she kept a knife on her at all times.

Frankly, she felt it was less for her protection... And more for... Well...

"I need to be reminded I could stab that fucking ditz at any time if I really wanted to!" Kara snarled, slamming down some papers on the desk in the red manse. Thom and Lucy looked up from their own paperwork at the table. Lucy sighed and rolled her eyes.

"We're only hearing half her conversation, again," Lucy commented. Thom smirked.

"Half? That's optimistic..."

"What'd the Khaleesi do this time?" Lucy asked. Kara groaned and slapped her hand against her forehead, collapsing into the chair with a groan.

"She wants us to make factories for her," Kara sighed. " _Factories!"_ She leaned over the table. "Oh sure! I'll just pull them out of _my ass!_ "

"She give you a time table? Resources? Any idea of how you're supposed to accomplish this?" Lucy asked gently. Kara gave her a glare.

"Like hell she did! We're barely to _lathes!_ Fucking _lathes!"  
_  
"Better than what I had to do," Thom sighed. "Supervise fighting pits."

"Fighting pits?!" Lucy gasped in disbelief. "Are you serious?!"

"Where have you been?" Kara demanded. Lucy flushed.

"Well... One of those sellswords was kind of cute and-"

"You really need to stop that," Kara stated flatly. "How many antibiotics do you have left, anyway? And where did you - Nevermind, I don't want to know," Kara muttered, at Lucy's dark red cheeks. Thom coughed. Kara raised her eyebrows at him.

"Don't tell me you two-?"

"I'm starting to regret it, just a little," Thom admitted. Lucy glared and kicked him under the table, making him yelp. "OW!"

"Fuck you!" Lucy growled.

"I did. I'm regretting it," Thom stated.

The two began shouting and screaming insults at eachother, as Kara sighed and rose up from her table. She walked over to the window and stared out at the city, closing her eyes tightly.

There was nothing left to this. A few weeks and everything Daenerys was demanding was already well beyond her abilities to deliver. There was technology they could make, a few sops to offer to Daenerys... But no. That wasn't enough. Factories. Put all their resources into factories that wouldn't be ready for _years,_ at best. Even if she could somehow figure out the first steps there. Daenerys took all of Kara's protests and issues... And just told her to go back to her manse and see if there wasn't any other way to work this out.

She sighed, and rubbed her temples. She had to come up with something... Something to get her off this ridiculousness...

"I... Hey!" Thom called out. "HEY! Kara! Look! In the bay! It's a ship!"

Kara rolled her eyes. "Thom, that's not remotely surprising given this is a _port of call_ and-"

"No! No! I mean, it's one of ours! One of our ships!" Thom shouted. Kara spun around and ran to the other window. She picked up a farseer and looked through it, searching for white sails... White sails...

"Yes! YES!" Kara gasped. "Yes! It is one of ours! It's a brig! It's one of ours!"

"Can you see the flag? Are they signalling us at all?" Lucy gasped. Kara scowled and studied the view a bit more carefully. She could see a few spots of color on the masts, but nothing distinctive.

"No... But damnit! We've got to get there!" Kara said. "Once we get the hell out of here, we can let Dragon Lady just stew and build her _own_ factories!"

"So, wait... We're just going to run away?" Lucy asked. "What about everyone else?"

"We'll find them _without_ a crazy Dragon Lady breathing down our necks!" Kara insisted. Thom dropped his paperwork.

"I'm all for it," Thom said with a nod. "Fighting pits are just _creepy_ wrong."

All three headed off, rushing down the stairs and out the doors of the manse. They gave no explanation, no excuses: They just ran down the city streets for the docks.

The trouble was, of course, that they were hardly the only ones to notice the ship. Kara immediately realized the flaw with their plan when she saw numerous Unsullied standing on the dock. Around a pale blonde woman in blue. Who immediately turned and smiled at them.

"Lady Kara! I'm so glad to see you here!" She said happily. "Come on! Come on! It's a Northern ship! They're here, they're here!"

Lucy and Thom looked over at Kara. The blonde sighed deeply... And forced a smile. A smile she had to wear with the Boltons on occasion. Like when Ramsay wanted her to watch his latest tests of his flamethrowers on a few hapless bandits. Granted, Ramsay's requests were much less... Ridiculous, but still. It never hurt to be able to present a pleasant face to a homicidal maniac with the ability to set things on fire.

How did she keep running into employers like this?!

"Yes! Yes, that's very good!" Said Kara. She sighed as the ship slowly came into dock, men waving at them from the ship. She kept smiling, and muttered softly to Thom: "Get ready to get us out of here."

"With what? A miracle?" Thom muttered back, also smiling uncomfortably.

The ship threw several lines to shore, and the dock workers took them and tied them down. A gangplank was thrown down, and Daenerys smiled warmly as her bodyguards rested their hands on their weapons.

A man emerged from the ship, his long black hair waving in the wind over his handsome chiseled face... A face defined by his blue stained lips and an patch over his right eye. A squid was emblazoned on his chest, and the smirk he wore was as vicious as a shark's.

He walked down, and knelt before Daenerys. He bowed his head.

"Khaleesi Daenerys," he spoke, "I am Lord Euron Greyjoy... King of the Iron Isles. I have come to pledge myself to you, and to the retaking of the Iron Throne," he spoke gallantly. Daenerys stared down at him, her eyebrows raised.

"The Iron Isles that are currently at war with the North? Whom I seek an alliance with?"

"All in the past, your Grace," Euron said again, smiling up at her with poisonous sincerity. "And to prove my sincerity... I offer gifts." He rose, and snapped his fingers. Immediately, several men came out with three women between them. Two bound by chains, and one coming out under her own power. And the one under her own power was incredibly familiar. It took Kara a moment to place her...

"Princess Sansa?!" Lucy gasped. "And is that Cersei?!"

"Damn, she got _hot,"_ Thom muttered. "I mean Sansa, not Cersei!"

"That's our _princess,_ thank you," Lucy growled.

A princess who was looking, at the very least, savagely amused at the fact that the former Queen of Westeros was in chains near her. And forced to her knees in front of Daenerys. Cersei looked up with a contemptuous sneer, as Euron just grinned.

"May I present Queen Cersei Baratheon, Princess Myrcella Baratheon, and of course... Princess Sansa Stark."

"And... You would offer them all to me? Freely?" Daenerys asked with a smile.

"Why not? It's just what's needed to, as the Northerners say, get your foot in the door," Euron replied with a smile. "After all... One needs leverage to accomplish the things needed. Do you not agree, Khaleesi?"

Daenerys smiled, just a bit wider. "Indeed..."

"Oh... This can only end well," Kara muttered, still grinning.


	39. Chapter 40

**Omake:** _ **Survivors**_ **write history. Not the victors.  
**

 **Army of the North, Mobile Army Surgical Hospital # 1  
Two miles north of the Crossroads, the Crownlands.  
Two weeks after the Battle of the Crossroards**

Consciousness returned slowly to Lancel Lannister, one sensation at a time.

First was a vague sense of warmth. A warmth that suffused his entire body. The kind of warmth he had not felt in a very long time, no matter how hot the fires inside the Red Keep burned.

Next came the feeling of incredible softness. Like he was floating on a cloud, seemingly detached and disconnected from everything. For the first time in a very long time, Lancel felt … free.

Free of the obligations of family. Free of the obligations of oaths and loyalty that tied him to people he despised and feared. Free of the knowledge that no matter what he did, people who looked up to him would die as he led them against the indifferent firepower of the North that cut them down as a Northern blizzard destroyed summer flowers.  
Most of all, for the first time he actually felt free of the old wound of guilt in his heart. Guilt born from the knowledge that this war stemmed from his secret treason. Treason born of lust for his cousin, a lust that had set events in motion that had cost him his family, his friends and what little self respect he might have still had for himself.

Yet all of it had just … vanished.

For now came light. A sort of pure white light and his soul rejoiced in it as through his muddled thoughts, he realized that he had gotten his wish after all. On that nightmare battlefield at the Crossroads, he sluggishly concluded that he had died and now, he could only be in the presence of the Seven.  
And despite his crimes, Lancel still felt a vague sense of peace at that knowledge. The Gods would judge his actions over his life, good and ill and that judgement would be fair and true.

The light seemed to flutter slightly and Lancel felt his mouth open, drawing in a deep breath - and causing a sudden stab of of pain to arc through his body. On pure instinct as he flinched in response, he felt his eyes flutter open briefly … and he saw her.

She could only be the aspect of The Maiden.

She was incredible. Indistinct but bathed in pure white light. A face caring and kind, impossibly beautiful yet seeming to be looking off in another direction...  
He tried to speak up, truly, but he couldn't seem to make his mouth work. Everything was suddenly so heavy and he felt so tired that before he knew it his eyes were closing and he was falling back to sleep …  
But it was no longer a dreamless sleep.

Now there was a face in it.

The second time consciousness dawned for Lancel Lannister he felt his strength had at least partially returned. And, rather more quickly now, a dull pain throbbed through his limbs and he found his mind sharply bringing everything around him into focus.

To his faint disappointment he realized quickly that he was not dead. As his weakly moving hands clutched the sheets and blankets, he came to understand that he was lying on a stiff -but surprisingly comfortable- bed. He started to glance around - only to regret it as he immediately felt dizzy and had his vision blur, pulling a pained groan from his dry throat as he squinted his eyes shut and took a deep breath to steady himself.

Clearly he had made enough noise to be heard because shortly after he heard a brisk set of footsteps and he forced himself to open his eyes as he felt the room stop spinning.

At which point it almost started again.

The woman he had seen yesterday -that he on reflection would have simply dismissed as a dream- was real.

And coming into his room.

She was dressed all in white from head to toe and seemed to gently glow in the mid-morning light coming from windows behind him. Her dark hair was elaborately curled and worked up onto her head - probably to keep it out of the way - and just looking at the slight smile she offered him as she approached caused him to feel more alive and awake than he had for the last year.  
She halted by the side of his bed, forcing him to tilt his head back as he tried to weakly smile back at her, her face turning slightly critical as she carefully looked down at him.

"I see we're finally awake" she noted and Lancell could only nod dumbly, finding her beauty only seemed to grow the closer she got, despite the fact that she was clearly mortal and not divine. He tried to open his mouth and say something, but only a grinding noise seem to come out of his dry throat and he winced at the pain the effort incurred.  
"Hold on" she said as he tried to speak, stepping off to the side where he saw a small jug of water and a metal cup was set, pouring a small glass before coming back. "Here, take small sips, carefully" she instructed him and Lancel obeyed her instructions. He marveled at the cool, crisp and clean taste of the water, somehow fresher than any he had tasted before, the liquid at first being absorbed straight into his dry mouth before finally his throat was once again moist enough to talk.

"Thank … " he tried roughly before clearing his throat and trying again in a slightly hoarse voice. "Thank you".  
The other didn't say anything, just nodding slightly as she retrieved the cup and placed it back on the side table, before she retrieved a …

A thing?

Whatever it was, some kind of polished disk, fixed to a strap that she pulled on over her forehead and around her head as she stepped back to his bed, casually sitting down on the side next to him.  
"Now, just hold still" she instructed him as she leaned closer to him, "and look right at my face".

Lancel was very sure in that moment that his dead uncle rising from the grave couldn't have made him disobey her as she loomed over him at close range, Lancel fighting the sudden urge to start counting each of the faint freckles on her stunning face. Then he had to fight the urge to shiver in pleasure as her hands gently touched the side of his head to hold it in place, sending a wave of goosebumps down his skin.  
He distantly felt that his long golden hair had apparently been cut short since he had fallen on the battlefield, but that vague distraction faded as she reached up to flip the disk down to cover her right eye - no, he noticed there was a hole in the middle she could see through, even as the disk suddenly seemed to start glowing as it focused light somehow … right into his eye.

He fought the urge to flinch away from the light and, after a few seconds, she shifted her head slightly to sweep the light across and dazzle his other eye before finally pulling back and pulling off the bizarre device, seemingly happy with what she had seen. Yet moments later was back with another contraption; a bizarre pair of metal tubes she stuck in her ears connected by long rubber tubes to a small metal disk. But further examination of the device was put on hold as she reached out and, in a very businesslike way, started to pull his blankets and sheets back … and then started to unbutton the chest of the plain tunic he was wearing.

"I'm just going to listen to your heart and lungs" she explained off his suddenly wide eyed look, seemingly faintly amused as she carefully spread out his partially opened tunic.

Lancel tried not to think about how deeply his face had to be flushing, instead forcing himself to look away from the incredible woman to the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest - at least until her hand entered his frame of view and carefully placed the disk just above the bandages.  
This time he did flinch slightly at the coldness, but quickly controlled himself as she ordered him to breath in and out many times, before making him sit up, doing the same to his back and just generally but purposefully poking at him with her free hand and asking him where it hurt and where it didn't as he took deep breaths.

He only made the mistake once of lying and claiming he was in no pain when he really was just trying to play the part of a brave Knight who feared no pain as he had always been tought. The 'you idiot' expression on her face when she pressed harder in a place she clearly wouldn't have had he told her the truth, was more than enough to make him stop it though … after the stab of pain faded away.

Eventually though, she seemed satisfied and she helped him into an upright position. That done, she moved to the foot of his bed and took up an odd looking board with a clamp on its top that had been hanging there; the clamp ingeniously holding several papers in place that she quickly flipped through, writing on them here and there with a … pencil?

That was when it hit him.

It really should have been blindingly obvious - even to him. That a woman was tending to him rather than a Maester was strange enough, especially for someone as highborn as he. But a woman using tools and technology he had never seen before-

"You're from the North" he observed without thinking, before mentally berating himself for speaking so rudely. Almost like it was an accusation.  
Fortunately it seemed that she was not insulted or otherwise upset with his not-quite accusation, not looking even bothering to look up from her 'clipboard' as she worked.

"In a manner of speaking" she allowed, glancing at him for a moment before looking back down at her work. "I was actually born in Volantis to a noble house but I moved to Westeros to continue to study the arts of healing". She frowned slightly at her board, seemed to move her pencil sharply for a moment, before her frown smoothed back out as she continued to write. "I lived in the Westerlands most of my time here, but three years ago I accepted an offer while in Riverrun to move to the North to work with the medical guild".

A slightly wry look came across her face for a moment.

"I thought I might be able to teach them some of my knowledge…" she admitted after a moment, as if embarrassed.

"Yes, what could those tree worshiping barbarians possibly know about anything?" Lancel agreed, earning an annoyed look before her expression softened and she let loose an amused sort of snort as she recognized his expression as ironic rather than insulting.

"Yes ... I suppose I thought the same at first" she agreed tactfully as she got back to work with just a hint of a smile. "Truthfully" she admitted, "I learned more in my first six months in the North then I had the previous six years. I trained in medicine, surgery and trauma before being handpicked to study under a former Maester named Qyburn. In fact, I had just been made an offer to join a surgical team at the new Winterfell Hospital Theon Greyjoy had personally designed …"  
Then the clear pride on her face at her accomplishments fell away and her face turned grim.  
"Then … well, then came the war".

"Ah" Lancel managed, feeling his own face fall at that and, slightly sadly, he could feel a faint pulse of that same guilt return. Even this beautiful woman had been impacted by his foolish choices …

"And so here I am now, trying to put together the lives ripped apart by Thunderarms and lances and wildfire" she said, her tone turning almost dull. "The part never sung about or written in the grand stories - cleaning up the mess soldiers leave behind thinking that charging thunderarms is the most ingenious military tactic even thought of".  
That coolly delivered rebuke stung him. Even more so for the fact he suddenly realized that he had been so eager to find death, seeing it as the only way out of his situation, that he hadn't even given a second thought for the men who had followed him when he had sounded the charge … and had not been as lucky as him.

And now his crimes were compounded yet again.

"Why did you save my life?" he blurted out, earning a surprised look from the other.

"Because all life is worth fighting for" she said with an utter sincerity in her voice as she focused her attention back on him and Lancel could only nod at that. "I'll be back to check on you in a few hours - but if you need any assistance ring that" she said, pointing to his side table where he saw a little bell had been placed. And with that, she turned on a heel and walked towards the door in a whisper of white clothes.

"Wait!" his mouth declared before he could stop it - and as she paused and turned with an archly raised eyebrow, he felt he had no choice but to continue. "I'm sorry … I … what's your name?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound quite as pathetic as he thought he did, her beauty only growing the more he stared at her, making him feel wholly unworthy to ask such a question...  
The other started him for some time before a tiny smile came onto her face.  
A real smile that struck him like a blunted lance in a joust.

"...Talisa" she finally said. "My name is Talisa, Ser Lannister".

"Lancel" he again almost tripped over his tongue in response - feeling his face flush red as he again spoke before he thought, before he summoned up what courage he had. "Please just … call me Lancel".

Talisa's smile widened ever so slightly for a moment before she nodded at him and turned to walk away with a whisper of sound, her brilliant white clothes shimmering in the sunlight before she was gone.

 _Talisa_ Lancel rolled the name silently in his head, closing his eyes as exhaustion again seemed to creep up on him, his strength leaving the room as she did. And now with a name to go with the face, he dreamed once again.

Lancel didn't see Talisa for the rest of the day. Apparently he had slept through her return visit and instead he awoke to find an old battleaxe of a Northern woman in a grey tunic who fit every stereotype of what a Northern woman should look like; with a face seemingly carved from granite. She in turn informed him of this fact - and that his dinner would arrive shortly.

And so it had.

It would be safe to say he had not had much food in his life that ever tasted that bad, but he had seen the unspoken challenge in her eyes to complain about it and had kept his mouth shut. Seemingly grudgingly impressing her with his courage, the woman had readily agreed that the meal was rather horrible tasting, but medically was packed full of the vital 'nutrients' (whatever that was) his body needed to help recover and repair the damage done to it.

He frankly would have preferred a good cup of wine and plate of meat … but he dared not say that after one look from the woman when he had made a face at the food.

And even this was enough kindness to shame him. He could well remember at the red keep where the few Northern prisoners had been kept in makeshift cells in abandoned warhouses, with barely a filthy blanket to protect themselves and perhaps a few crusts of bread if Joffrey could even be bothered - and no medical help at all. Those prisoners … those _people_ … had been sold off as cattle to slavers by his Uncle.

And what had he done about it?

Nothing.

At least his Father and his Cousin Tyrion had fiercely argued the matter with his Uncle, no matter that he had curtly dismissed their complaints. But him?

He had simply kept his mouth shut and tried not to walk past the prisoners miserable 'quarters'.

And here? Here he had been nursed back to health by the finest medical teams in Westeros, almost as if he was one of the North's own. And not just him either - he had been told that hundreds of wounded men from his army were in this 'MASH' - what was it with the North and their strange words? - being looked after with care from lowborn to highborn.

The North saved he and his men from death. _His King_ had sent their prisoners to a fate _far_ worse than death ... to buy slaves little better then animals to throw at the Northern army. Who had, apparently, been slaughtered to a man by withering firepower to buy his people the opening they needed.

His feelings of shame and self loathing had only redoubled over that night, until sleep had mercifully taken him.

The passing of another night and dawn of a new day had brought with it a second visit by the stunning Talisa and, afterwards, freedom from his bed, even if he was still a little unsteady on his feet. Even better, she had been willing to answer a few of his questions; leaving him stunned to find out he had been unconscious for weeks, the result of his head wound. His helmet had been hit by something heavy -shrapnel of some kind apparently- which had sent him flying out of his saddle, ironically saving him as it had caused the Northern soldier aiming at him to miss what should have been a clean kill. The expensive castle forged piece had taken most of the impact, but he had still apparently taken some kind of damage to his skull could have killed him, if not for the skill of Talisa and her team - she had shown him the scars on the back of his head with a mirror or two.

Still, she was pleased with his progress in recovery. He still became somewhat dizzy if he moved his head too fast - or did anything too fast, but she was confident he would make a full recovery, eventually. But it had still been only grudgingly that she had allowed him to leave his bed and explore some of the rest of the hospital, an ingenious temporary framework of wood and canvas built into and around several former farmhouses.  
He had tried to give his oath to her that he wouldn't try to escape -as was proper - but she had simply laughed at that, noting he wouldn't make it a hundred meters if he tried.  
And before he could feel more than slightly insulted at her shooting down his attempt to be a proper Knight, she had pointed out almost in passing that the war was over anyway.

 _That_ offhand comment had shocked him enough to feel a need to sit down. Quickly. He had expected that it would be the case, true, but to hear it said...

The next day, he had asked for a copy of the Westeros Despoiler.  
Then he had asked later in the day. And then later still.

It had taken no small amount of asking, but eventually -if only to shut him up- his 'charming' Northern battleaxe of a nurse had acquired him a copy of the latest Westeros Despoiler and he had hungrily started to consume what news he could.

He didn't know if he should laugh or cry when he read the news, unsurprisingly focused on the battle he had fallen in. The front cover set the tone with an absurd, yet terrifying picture. Somewhat blurry and clearly taken at a great distance, he could still easily make out the shape of a man riding...a horse?

No. Not a horse.

Riding a _direwolf ..._ as if it were a horse.

A second giant wolf was flanking it - and a whole _pack_ of smaller -in scale compared to the massive beasts- wolves were following, clearly moments away what he recognized as the King's army in its flank. The nearest soldiers were already fleeing in terror and Lancel could not possibly blame them; the impossible sight looked terrifying enough on the _paper_ he was reading. To the men in the chaos of the battle...  
Lancel recalled almost a year ago now, he had stood before the Iron Throne and loudly told the court (who had wept and cried with appropriate shock for Joffrey) of Rob Starks 'latest crimes'. That he had used black sourcey to summoned an army of wolves at the Golden Tooth who had feasted on the retreating Lannisters led by The Mountain, desperately trying to reach safety. The giant Knight falling in defense of the Lady Lefford at the hands of Rob Starks own direwolf, before he had given the poor woman over to Theon Greyjoy for his depraved amusement.

It had been an absurd lie - he had known it then and there, used only to try and break and/or humiliate Sansa Stark. A useless gesture as she had remained stoically implacable in the face of the King's threats and near mortal anger. It had only been the unexpected arrival of his cousin Tyrion, who had stormed into the Throne room, intimidated everyone into silence and escorted the young girl out that had probably prevented her blood being shed that day.

But now, looking at the unchanging picture, Lancel found it both amusing … and terrifying … to see that perhaps he had just gotten the dates wrong?

While Joffrey had cowered in his carrige at the rear, Rob Stark had, against all military logic (and he was sure the advice of his Generals) mounted his Dire Wolf, with his sisters apparently joining in from somewhere, to ride out and pull the pressure of his men trying to fall back to the far side of the river, where a withering barrage of firepower had apparently ended Addam Marbrand.

Even more insanity awaited however; he had turned several pages to find a photograph of _him_ of all people. It was actually a rather good one, a bittersweet image that was exactly as how he had always wanted to be seen when he was younger and in the shadow of Jamie and Tywin and his Father. At the head of his Knights, leading a charge with explosions all around as he galloped for the braech in the Northern lines, the foolish paper describing it as a desperate act of increidble courage ... instead of the attempt to find the embrace of The Stranger it had been. To cap off the insanity, _Theon Greyjoy himself_ had taken the time to contribute a poem written after hearing of the reports of the battle. And unsurprisingly for a man who seemed to excel in _anything_ he attempted, Lancel admitted it was actually rather good ... and unlike the reporters who missed the point, seemed to capture the spirit of the moment far better.

' _Cannon to right of them Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd_ ' Lancel read to himself, visions of that hell of a battle swimming up around him from the words as he closed his eyes-

"Wonderfully poetic isn't it?" a familiar voice suddenly broke into his thoughts and Lancels head snapped up - a mistake as a sudden painful dizzy spell confirmed - before he forced his way through it to focus on the diminutive figure at his door in utter disbelief as he strode in as if he owned the place. "Although a little over the top. _And_ , to be perfectly honest, I'm _quite_ sure the Boomsquid wrote it -probably while drunk- months ago, having predicted that _someone_ would think charging a line of muskets would be a smart idea and he would have cause to use it..."  
Lancel would have normally been insulted, or flinched, at the rebuke, but he was just so _stunned_ at the impossible presence of the man...

"Cousin"? he managed to get out with no small amount of disbelief and shock in his voice as the other climbed up onto the stool to face him, letting his short legs swing almost casually.

"You were expecting perhaps Aegon Targaryen to fly by for a visit?" Tyrion asked with a mildly amused look. "You must have hit your head harder than was reported!"

Lancel could only shake his head at that. He had been sure this man had died at the steel wedding, right alongside Jamie. Or had been executed shortly after along with his Father, brothers and anyone else even loosely associated with the name 'Lannister', in revenge for the shocking insult delivered to the North by attempting to kill their King under Guest Right.  
His Uncle had seemingly taken the silence of news about the Lannisters as conformation. And Joffrey had been sure -almost delightedly so- that his uncle had died ... leaving _them_ the last of their lines.

And yet...

"You seem rather ...surprised... to see me" Tyrion noted with an arch eyebrow as Lancel just stared at him.

"I … I thought … you were dead!" he blurted in numb shock. "Executed, after the wedding…"

Surprise followed by understanding flashed across the others face.

"Joffrey I take it?" he asked rhetorically, getting a nod anyway which he greeted with a snort. "No, no I wasn't. _Neither_ was your Father. We're both fine" he assured him and the sudden surge of emotion at _that_ news was unstoppable. He felt his eyes tearing up at the revelation.

They were alive. _His family was alive._ He was -not- alone.

"But …" Tyrion added and Lancel looked up at him, not sure how much more his pounding head could take as the other sighed, a look of pain coming across his face - a very rare lapse in his cousin's self control. "Willem ... well, he was shot and killed by one of the assassins Joffrey sent in the firefight".

And with that his growing euphoria and seen feeling of being alive again, started to shudder to a halt at the news that his brother remained dead, replaced with a sudden feeling that he was about to be sick.

Then he was.

Luckily, the Northern hospital had placed buckets for this exact situation next to their beds - and they had pointed this out at every meal, which said something for the taste- was close to hand.

"Sorry … I suppose that was a little _too_ much too fast" the other apologized, for once sounding genuinely apologetic as he carefully handed him off a convenient rag for him to clean up his face, before Lancel hurriedly washed his mouth out with some water.

"Maegyr?" he asked quickly, his voice slightly hoarse from the bad taste in his throat - the Northern 'healthy' food tasting just as bad coming back up as going down.

"Oh, he's well; he and your Father should be back at Castley Rock by now, trying to start getting things back to normal before I get there" Tyrion assured him.

Lancel, despite the fact that he was often considered slow compared to some of the other members of his family, didn't take terribly long to understand the implications of that statement.

"You? You're Lord of the Westerlands now?" That come out a little bit more shocked than he intended, but his cousin didn't seem to be annoyed at all by his stunned face.

"So it would appear" Tyrion shrugged, examining his nails in a self-deprecating manner that Lancel knew was entirely fake.

"But ... but what about Ser Jamie?" Lancel blubbered with a sudden feeling of dread. "Is he-"

" _Also_ alive and well" Tyrion confirmed, before grinning tightly as if at some private joke. "Although he's feeling just a little bit humiliated about getting roaring drunk and trying to hijack a coach to return to King's Landing -being beaten silly by a woman in the process. Or so the Despoiler says. But, to answer the question you were about to ask; as part of our agreement with the North to end the war, he waved his claim to the Westerlands with the disbandment of the Kingsguard to do 'service to the Realm' or something silly like that. Right now, he's in King's Landing with Theon Greyjoy planning a … what did he call it ... ah yes; a 'road trip'. But enough about me; let's talk about you! Lancel Lannister, the hero of the Crownlands!" he boomed with a grin on his face that actually seemed genuine for the first time ever.

"...I'm sorry, what?" he asked in complete confusion and bewilderment, which only caused his cousins head to tilt in sudden understanding.

"Oh, clearly you didn't read page six yet?" Tyrion nodded at the Despoiler and at the shake of his head, Tyrion simply said two words. "Yellow Cliff".

Lancels eyes went wide at _that_ and he licked his lips at the implications.

"Then the villagers…"

"Are all alive and safe - thanks to _you_ " Ser Lancel" - and for the first time, his Counsin actually said those words with what almost sounded like genuine respect rather than as the punchline to a joke. "And several other villages were warned as well, their people _also_ saved. That was very nice work" the other said, offering him a mock salute as his mind reeled and Lancel reflected on that news with some small amount of surprise - and genuine happiness for the first time since he had woken.

As Joffries army had marched through the Crownlands towards their final battle with Robb Starks army, Joffrey had amused himself by sending out Knights to slaughter villages who had not marched all their men out armed with whatever weapons they could find on his orders. Clearly to just be used as arrow - no, cannon - fodder in the coming battle.  
To Lancels shame, more than a few of the youngest, most recently raised Knights utterly unworthy of the title from the Stormlands and Crownlands had gleefully taken to this task with a will, making sport of the men and 'enjoying' the women when they failed to march out to their deaths at the head of the army as ordered. He had tried to avoid such duties but his time had run out eventually, with Joffrey in passing ordering him to make the same offer to the village of Yellow Cliff. With a sick grin on his face that suggested he was offering him a fine gift...

Sickened and horrified at the thought of doing such things - yet driven to obey his oaths- Lancel had done so … just not exactly as Joffrey might have intended - and stretching his orders to the limit as he finally found the courage to in _some_ small way, defy his Kings orders.

He had sent a trusted scout out at once, one he knew who would do exactly what he said without question. With orders to ride to the village and announce to them the Kings orders. That that their King demanded their men join him in his war. And then even more loudly and very graphically outlined exactly what would the price of defiance would be. What would happen to the men, the children, the women … if they were not assembled and ready to leave when the main party arrived at high noon. And noted that this would happen to every village between here and Crossroads where the traitor Rob Starks army was waiting...

After all, it took time to prepare for a campaign, did it not?

Unsurprisingly, when he had arrived to gather the 'volunteers', the village had been utterly deserted. And so he had given orders to burn it down, returning to Joffrey without any people, but pleasing his King with his tale of how he had burned down the entire village - and lies about how he had then befouled its well and salted its fields so it would never be of use again and would stand forever as a monument to the price of denying one's King.

"I have … some … idea from Jamie of what it's like to be caught between conflicting oaths" Tyrion awkwardly noted before brightening again. "For what it's worth, King Rob and his retinue seem to think highly of your actions - and your courage on the field of battle against hopeless odds has the romantics swooning. Between that and Willem dying to save the life of one of the Karstarks boys, _your_ side of the family at least is being held in increasingly in high regard and shutting down the last of the voices who wanted to see every Lannister hang-"

"Is that _all_ there is for you?" Lancel couldn't help but interrupt in some small amount of anger and irritation at the sheer pointlessness of it all. "The game and politics? Is that all you care about?"

"Well it's not everything" Tyrion mockingly snorted. "Alcohol tends to find its way in there along with women most of the time"..."

Lancel couldn't help but snort in amusement at that, before his expression turned sober.

"Yes and have you seen what happens on the ground when people play the game of thrones?" Lancel pressed. "When good men you lead charge to their deaths on the whims of people thinking they are moving pieces on one of those chess boards?"

"As a matter of fact, I have" Tyrion confirmed in a level voice, his cheerful demeanor fading away awefully - and Lancel recalled he had been present at the Whispering Woods where what should have been a diversionary force of Rob Starks had crushed his uncle's army and had seen first hand the horrors of the Norths might. "And yes … the insane choices of a few idiots condemned far too many good people to death over the last year" he acknowledged, his gaze remaining distant. " _Far_ too many indeed Ser".

Choices of people like me Lancel thought in guilt.

"And me - _and_ my beloved sister _and_ my insane nephew" Tyrion added and Lancel realized to his shock that he had spoken aloud before snorting softly as he recovered, knowing full well that he ultimately bore the responsibility for all this madness and all this death.

 _He_ had gotten King Robert killed out of lust for his cousin and his desperate desire to please her. He had set things into motion that could not be stopped, this war taking on a life of its own all because he had made sure a drunken King would die on his hunt.

Every life lost traced back to that one day … that one choice of a stupid boy who had tried to prove he could 'play the game'.

"Still, as delightful as it is to mope around and regret our actions, especially with a good Dornish Red, the Boomsquid has assured me that traveling back in time is -probably- impossible. And thus, all we can do is see about trying to make sure we build a better future. And what better way to build the future than by playing the game to make sure it doesn't happen again?"

"I'm tired of playing the 'game'" Lancel said with no amount of bitterness before he looked up at his cousin. "But The Seven have given me a second chance … I have a great deal to atone for before my time comes and don't intend to simply sit around".

"You almost sound like a Sparrow" Tyrion noted with his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he crossed his arms. "They've been starting to cause some ripples in King's Landing. The fact that the High Septon didn't see fit to condemn my Father and Nephew for buying and selling slaves seems to have rather … upset … them after they heard the news and they have already started to try and move into Kings Landing and help the poor and subvert the existing Faith. In fact I rather suspect the High Septon is operating on borrowed time. And now that the North controls King's Landing … well, that's a problem for _another_ day. But-"

"No" Lancel -carefully- shook his head. Looking past his cousin, with perfect timing, he saw a glimpse of Talisa helping a patient walking down the corridor of the temporary building.  
 _  
And suddenly everything made sense to him.  
_  
There was the noble woman who had forsworn her position to humbly seek to serve _life_ , not _death_. A warrior of a kind, one who fought the Stranger itself. Who answered that phrase 'Valar Morghulis' - all men must die - simply by insisting 'Not _today_ '.

His actions had led to far too many deaths … and as he caught the gaze of Talsia, who offered him a smile which he returned before she turned away, he felt what could only be a revelation as to why the Seven had spared him and what path his life would take now as he turned to face his cousin with a certainty that seemed to draw his attention at once.

"No. Not the Sparrows".


	40. Chapter 41

**Duelling Interests**

 _ **300 AL, King's Landing**_

Master Kurk marched between the two large, bearded men as they escorted him through the corridors of the manse. All in all, he considered himself lucky to be alive, since his forge was outside the Red Keep, and he had been working there when the fortress exploded. When the armies of the rebels burst through the gates and into the city, he, his family and his apprentices barricaded the doors, expecting a repeat of the Sack that had ended the previous Rebellion.

Instead, the Northern troops had been remarkably restrained upon breaching the walls. True, there was looting, brawling and the normal outrages you'd expect from veteran troops after a long, bloody campaign, but the Northern officers kept decent discipline, arrested and hung murderers and rapists no matter who's banners they marched under, and ensured that any arson failed to spread past a few houses.

As occupations went, it was remarkably civilised. Still, when a troop of longcoats had arrived at his forge, 'requesting' that he go with them, he had been extremely apprehensive: it wasn't a secret that he had worked on producing weapons for the Baratheon and Lannister forces, or that many of those weapons were of his own design. So, even if he was walking to his own execution, he hoped that the Northerners would keep to their demonstrated character and refrain from killing his family as well.

He was surprised as he was led into a large, walled courtyard, edged with flowers and bushes, centered around a large circular table. Seated there was a small figure in bright clothes: one Kurk recognised. Standing against a nearby wall was a taller blonde man, and the family resemblance (despite the smaller man's deformities) was clear. "Ah, Master Kurk, welcome! Donner, Jera, thank you for escorting our guest: if we could have some privacy?" The Northerners saluted, then left, leaving Kurk alone with the brothers Lannister. "Come now, don't be shy. Here, have some wine: I always find that it loosens my tongue - among other things. Come, man, sit down!" He insisted in a friendly tone, and Kurk reluctantly approached the table. He noted that resting on that table was one of his rope-lock thunderers, and several packages of ammunition. Tyrion finished pouring a deep red wine into a crystal goblet that was likely worth a month's income for his forge, and handed it to a still nervous Kurk as he sat. "Oh, don't fret, Master Kurk: I certainly didn't bring you here to shoot you with one of your own weapons: if nothing else, I'm somewhat too short to load it properly!"

Kurk hesitantly took a gulp of the wine. "Thank you, my lord."

Tyrion watching him from over his own wine glass for a few moments. "So, as I understand it you worked for my father, replicating the Northerner's weapons as best you could." He reached out with one stubby arm and touched his fingers to the stock of the musket. "Now, I'm not nearly an expert with such weapons - or any weapons, you understand - but I'm reliably informed that certain inventors were quite impressed by your rope-lock mechanism. And those rocket carts: I'm told they were absolutely terrifying to face. Bravo." He emptied his glass, then poured himself another. "I'm sure that with such magnificent work my father, the Hand, showered you with praise and wealth?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow, and Kurk found that his tongue was too large to respond. "Ah. I didn't think so. Gratitude, I'm afraid, was not one of my father's greater attributes.

"Now, I'm sure you're wondering why you're here. Well, it seems that with a great number of my family dead, arrested for treason, disinherited or in exile, the current heir to Casterley Rock and presumptive Lord Paramount of the Westerlands is ... well, me. Shocking, I know, I never expected it. Still, needs must, and thankfully our new allies didn't do _too_ much damage to my kingdom before I decided it was far better to work _with_ them than to fight them. Come now, drink up, man! You'll make me feel like a poor host!"

Kurk obediently drank, the wine tasting a little less like ashes as he began to believe that he would survive this interview. "Excellent. Now, as I was saying, I have been recognised as, basically, the new lord of the Westerlands. I will need to repair some damage back home, thanks to the rather enthusiastic adventures of the Young Wolf and the Boomsquid, and institute some changes. One of those will be establishing a standing force of soldiers to help keep the police, ward off Ironborn attacks, that sort of thing. And that, in this new century, will require thunderarms. Quite a lot of them, and of good quality. Now, it's quite possible that the Starks will be willing to sell such weapons to their newest allies, but to be honest, I would feel a great deal more comfortable if the Westerlands had a local supplier of muskets, cannon, rockets, and all kinds of things that go bang." He put down his glass, and studied Kurk seriously. "Now, do you have any idea where I'd be able to find a man who could manage such an endeavor?"

"Me, my lord?"

"Yes, you, Master Kurk. You're not just a good blacksmith: you're a capable administrator and leader, a respected master of your craft, and a native-born Westerman. You demonstrated great loyalty to the boy you thought was your king," Tyrion pointedly did not look over his shoulder at his brother, who was widely suspected of being both Joffrey's uncle _and_ father, "which shows a respect for tradition and law - if not, perhaps, a good judge of character. In any case, you have a great many talents I, and my kingdom, need. On the other hand, you would likely not like to remain in a city where you are well known as a supporter of the ... shall we say, former dynasty. You and your family can find a fresh start in Casterley Rock, and not simply as a blacksmith, but as an _industrialist_ ," he pronounced the strange word with a distinct Northern accent, but waved his hand at Kurk's confusion. "Look, there are merchants and guilds lining up to leap across the border and bring Northern skills and machines to make obscene profits in the Westerlands. For example, I have seen examples of very powerful, very efficient pumps built at Winterfell. I can assure you, they are as superior to our own as a Longcoat's rifle is to one of your thunderers," he again patted the stock of the rope-lock, and Kurk nodded, thoughtfully.

As a Westerman, particularly one involved in metalwork, he knew the value of a good pump. The deep mines that were the source of Lannister wealth depended on them to drain them of the inevitable flooding they would experience, and to bring fresh air down into the depths of the earth. If the Northern machinery was more powerful, let alone cheaper ...

"Now, these canny and inventive Northern merchants will wish to invest in our mines, factories, shipyards, everything they can think of. These are men - and women - who have been turning the North from a backwater to a thriving economy in only a few short years, and I have no doubt they intend to gouge us of every coin they can. And they will: it's quite inevitable, since we simply don't have the machines, the skill to make the machines, to use them properly ... even the basic principals behind them: I've seen a Bolton war wagon, and I have no earthly idea how it works. If I were a religious man I'd say Greyjoy made a deal with some kind of devil, from the smell if nothing else, to get it moving. Since I'm not a religious man, I believe it's a clever mechanism, but other than that I have no idea." He gulped down some more wine. "So. We're going to get fucked over, Master Kurk, but I hope that with clever men like you, we can at least ensure that we get paid for the privilege."

After the blacksmith left, it wasn't long before there was a knock on the door. Jaime opened it, and let Theon in. The Greyjoy nodded to the Lannister, before striding over to sit with Tyrion. "Welcome, young Greyjoy. I trust I don't need to hide the identity of my previous guest."

Greyjoy took the wine glass he was offered, but didn't drink much. "Not really: I passed Master Kurk in the corridor, and I can guess the rest. Besides, our good friend Varys has been keeping me up to date with your ... recruiting efforts." He paused. "Tyrion, you know that the King won't let -"

"Theon, I'm quite certain that the good King will instruct his loyal subjects to be open handed and fair-minded when dealing with the merchants and lords of the Westerlands. I also know merchants. There will be hundreds of contracts signed, hundreds of businesses and ventures started, and you can bet your last gold dragon that every one of those Northern merchants will know your newfangled law system a fair sight better than my own people. Those contracts and deals will be slanted in favour of the North, and a goodly number of those Westerlander merchants partnering with Northerners will find themselves pushed out of their companies. You know it, and I know it."

Greyjoy sighed. "We need the Westerlands producing. We need your mines working at full capacity, we need your people producing more food, adopting better farming techniques, better fishing gear, we need factories turning out everything from boots to canteens to sewing needles to muskets -"

"Yes, and many of them will be produced by Northern companies and guilds. _But not all_." Tyrion leant forward in his chair. "I will _not_ see the Westerlands turned into nothing more than a source of cheap labour and resources for Northern businesses."

Theon opened his mouth to argue, but sat back in his seat instead, and took another gulp of wine. "I guess I can see where you're coming from. In your position, I might even do the very same thing."

The dwarf snorted. "I _very_ much doubt you'd ever _let_ yourself be in a position like mine."

Theon smiled. "That's the Gods own truth: I'd be an awful Lord Paramount."

The two clever men shared a grin, before Tyrion started to pour yet another goblet of wine. "Oh, by the way: I've been trying to find Tobho Mott: I found him to be very useful during Stannis' siege. I don't suppose -"

Theon snorted. "What? You thought I'd miss a chance to scoop up a master blacksmith who knows how to work Valyrian steel? My friend, I had a unit of Robb's men pick him up the first day we were in the city." Tyrion raised an eyebrow, and the other man shrugged. "Genius, remember?"

Two of the smartest men in King's Landing shared a smile, and clinked their goblets together in understanding: they may be friends, may respect one another ... but they both knew that their interests did not, and would not, exactly align. One day, they may find themselves at odds once more.

But for now, they sat in a garden and drank their wine.

* * *

A new ship class has joined the ranks of the Northern Navy:

\- _**Old Bear**_ **-class Frigate**  
A ship that combines the best of the _Direwolf_ -class and _Brandon_ -class Frigates with the _Seawolf_ -class Ironclads, a fast and well armed ship with the best protection against catapult and ballista.  
 **Vessels:** HNMS _**Old Bear**_ , _Hungry Wolf_ (Under Construction)  
 **Designated:** "Ironclad Steam Frigate" ISFG-01, ISFG-02  
 **Home Base:** Bear Island Harbor

And now, the omake:

 **The Old Ser And The Young Captain  
**

Kevan Lannister gazed upon the ruins, a tear threatening to get loose, and a vice grip upon his heart.

The war was finished. King's Landing had fallen, and the Iron Throne, rescued from the ruins of the Red Keep, had been turned into a 'tourist attraction' by King Robb Stark and Theon 'the Boomsquid' Greyjoy, as told by the _Westeros Despoiler_. Stannis Baratheon had surrendered his claim and joined the Night's Watch, to fight the Others... and grumpkins and snarks, like his nephew (and lord) Tyrion would say.

Kevan had lost enough. His brother to a heart attack, one of his sons in that damned Steel Wedding, several cousins in battle... but at least his eldest, Lancel, not only had survived the months under the thumb of that vicious idiot that the Northmen called 'the Crazy', but he had also become a bit of a hero by warning hundreds of people so they would escape Joffrey's clutches.

But what worried him now was the sorry state of the Lannisport docks. He had been a 'guest' (prisoner in all but name) of the North when it happened, some time after the Steel Wedding, but he had been told about it: a few hours before dawn, a small Northern fleet had appeared, set anchor in sight of the docks and then bombarded them without opposition. The ships had all been destroyed before they could even begin to row out of place, and the attack set off fires that the workers were unable to put down - and only rapid action prevented the fires from reaching the rest of the city. The men told him one of those ships were made of _iron_ , which, in different circumstances, he would have thought to be a fantasy.

Given what he knew now, he would not discard the idea.

"Father," a voice interrupted his musings, and he turned to see his son Martyn walking up to him.

"Martyn, is there trouble?"

"No, Father. A letter just arrived from Tyrion, and I brought it to you."

"Thank you, son," Kevan said, taking the message, opening and rapidly reading it. When he finished, he smiled. "Lancel is improving, both in body and mind. He can walk for longer than he did when we left, and he appears to be of a lighter mood."

"Does it say when he will be able to return?"

"No. Tyrion says it might be yet some time until he can ride a horse. And... it does seem that he is quite enchanted with one of the nurses that has helped heal him, a Talisa Maegyr. Volantene, aparently." Kevan gazed at Martyn, who apparently did not know whether to show interest or the classical dislike boys had for girls at his age, and smiled. "He has also discussed the possibility of building a Northern-style hospital here in Lannisport. Tyrion has yet to decide, but thinks he is likely to do so."

"It would be nice to have one," Martyn conceded, before looking out. "What are we waiting for, exactly?"

"Tyrion hired House Mormont to rebuild the docks in the New Northern fashion, and they are sending people today to begin the work," Kevan explained, as the mist began to lift as the sun rose.

Slowly, out of the cloud slid an enormous beast that spewed dark smoke out of a chimney, a beast made of metal and wood and cloth and rope.

"That's the ship, Ser Kevan!" Laven Seefar, the dockmaster, exclaims. "That's the ship that destroyed the docks!"

"Seven Gods! They are coming to finish the job!" a random worker screamed.

"They are NOT coming to attack!" Kevan shouted, calling everyone's attention. "Calm down, men. They are only here to begin the reconstruction of the docks!"

That mostly calmed down nerves around, although Kevan could hear some men muttering about this being an insult by the North. As much as Kevan agreed with them, there was little that could be done: it was not as if he could send a raven to the ship and tell them to leave and return on a different ship.

"It's enormous," Martyn said, fascinated. "And all made of iron? How does it float?"

"It's not made entirely in iron, son. The interior is probably made in wood, and for the most part it should float for the same reasons wooden ships float." Theon Greyjoy had written in one of his books about the reasons things floated or sunk in water, but for the life of him he could not remember the exact reasoning explained.

As to the ship, it had to be one of these _ironclads_ Tyrion had mentioned several times. It lacked a castle, but Kevan guessed it would not need it, seeing that it could just destroy the enemies from a distance instead of approach the enemy and start boarding, or perhaps even ram them if they were made of wood. Propulsion, instead of the typical oars, was carried out by sails or, probably, by steam-power. With his Myrish glass, he also could see the gun ports from which cannons came out and spat their projectiles upon its objective.

As he gazed, a bell sounded out, and the ship dropped its anchors. Soon, two boats were being lowered to the surface, and, as soon as they touched water and untied the ropes, the men in started to row their way to the docks. Kevan waited patiently as the boats arrived, got tied and its crews began to get out, before he walked toward them, ready to welcome them. They had been the enemy a few months before, but that did not mean he should not show courtesy.

From the distance, he could see some of them were armed with handguns, and that some others carried bags of tools, the latter being men and women carrying the badges that indicated they were Mechmen and Gearwives, those in charge of building and repairing all the inventions made by Theon Greyjoy. He supposed the others were just guards, protecting the people sent.

"Greetings," he said, calling the attention of the group. "I am Ser Kevan Lannister, Knight in service of Lord Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. Are you the Mormont people I am awaiting?"

"Aye, we are," one among the group stated, and Kevan turned his gaze to seek who had spoken, the person who was already walking toward him with all the imperiousness of a proud noble, as if born into the role of a ship captain.

A good grey coat, made of cloth that looked to be resistant to water, sleeves decorated with lace and gold, accompanied by a shirt and trousers. A broad leather belt holding a handgun and a knife. Hard boots, ready for (and used to) walking on deck without losing balance. The insignia of a high-ranked officer in the Northern Navy on the left half of the chest. The poise of a practiced master of the ship, hands clasped behind the back, short and precise steps. Long, black hair tied on a tail. Clever, sharp brown eyes looking at him, measuring him. And, to crown it all, a two-cornered hat with the emblems of both House Mormont and the North masterfully stitched on them.

All in all, Kevan was quite impressed... or, at least, he would be if the person that had spoken was not a young girl that barely reached four feet from the floor.

 _Seven Heavens, this girl can barely be Myrcella's age!_ Kevan thought, astonished. Knowing what he knew of the North, this was not a jape. But, someone so young? Tywin would surely consider it an insult. Kevan just decided to take it in stride and stepped forward.

"Lady Captain Lyanna Mormont of His Northern Majesty's Service _Old Bear_ , designation ISFG-01. We have come here for the first works in rebuilding Lannisport's docks, as agreed in contract between Lady Dacey Mormont, heir to Bear Island, and Lord Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands."

"Be welcome to Lannisport, Lady Mormont," Kevan replied, giving her a bow.

"My people are ready to begin taking measurements of these docks, and prepare the first sketches of possible designs for you and your people to peruse. Would you be kind enough to have someone guide them, for a first impression of the local?"

"It is no problem. Dockmaster Seefar, show the Mormont men around, so they can begin their work."

The dockmaster glared at him, as if he had just gravely insulted him, but he said nothing and waved his hand, prompting the Mormonts to follow.

"While the Mechmen and Gearwives take care of their part, I wonder if you would be willing to visit our _Old Bear_?" Lady Lyanna asked, taking him by surprise.

Kevan was not sure of what to say. The war might be finished, but that did not mean he felt safe boarding a ship full of Northeners.

"You are more than welcome to bring your own guard, if that will make you feel better?"

As Lady Lyanna showed him, Martyn and his men the makings of the ship, Kevan knew that, at the same time, the young girl was showing off the prowess of the people of Bear Island that had built and that crewed it.

A true monstrosity, with a length of two hundred feet and a width of fifty, it was crewed by three hundred and five people, all of which looked to be veterans in their jobs, even those who worked in the boilers and the steam engine, with its oppresive atmosphere and overwhelming heat that would make even a Dornishman sweat, and all the gears and cogs that transmitted the power produced by the boilers to the screw propeller, which allowed it to travel at speeds that galley oarsmen would be hard pressed to maintain for more than an hour.

And the cannons... if he thought that the ones used by the Northern army looked powerful, these would certainly make any man pause to show some terrified admiration for the destruction it could cause. Martyn was amazed, having never seen one up close and having never been in a battle against the North. His guards, who _had_ been in such a battle, were quite apprehensive.

All in all, it was a testament to how much Theon Greyjoy had changed the North. Tywin would have killed for a way to make as much steel as this ship had in a month... and, according to Lady Lyanna, not only were the Bear Island shipyards making at least another ship like this one, but there were ships even _bigger_ than this one, also made of metal.

Quite overwhelming, one might say.

Which was why he welcomed a chance to rest from it in Lady Lyanna's room within the ship – which were, again, bigger than their equivalent in normal wooden ships, covered in maps and with a small horn in one side the young girl explained could be used to communicate with other parts of the ship.

"So, what is your opinion of this ship, my Lords?"

"Well... it is quite impressive."

"Though, how come they let you lead? You are a little girl," Martyn said, obviously having held that question at the tip of the tongue ever since he met Lady Lyanna. As soon as Martyn made the question, she turned her gaze at him and glared, a glare that looked remarkably like Tywin's when he showed his discontent with Tyrion.

 _At least, he waited until we were away from everyone else,_ Kevan thought, looking at the only other person in the room, a man that had the look of a veteran sailor, beard included.

"I would be careful with what you are saying, lad," the man said. "The crew loves the Lady Captain, and would not take it well if someone outside puts her abilities into doubt."

"I may be young, Lannister. I may have reached my tenth nameday but a few days ago. But do not confuse youth with inexperience," Lady Lyanna stated. "Remember that your own uncle first gained his fame when he was nine-and-ten, and our King earned his first victories with six-and-ten namedays.

"However, you do have some reason about it. As is, I am still learning about how to be a captain, and everyone here knows it. Thankfully, Lord Stormbear here is more than willing to share his wisdom and support, and the crew knows what to do if we find ourselves in a situation I know nothing about."

"Which are becoming far and less as you learn, my Lady," the old sailor – Lord Stormbear – states, smiling.

"As for why I am here, well, Mother is busy with her Ladily duties, Dacey is busy with putting an end to banditry in the Crownlands, Alysanne is busy with her children and the _Longclaw_ , both Lyra and Jory are busy with their own missions and I am the one with the best knowledge of the _Old Bear_ apart from Mother and Alysanne, so..."

"Well, I am here because my nephew, Lord Tyrion, is busy being in your King's council, and his brother is his bodyguard. As for me, I worked for my brother Tywin for years, helping him lead the West, and prompting him to make peace when it was obvious we could not beat the North," _Yet_ , he mentally adds. "So, I presume you know that I will not allow my homeland to be subservient to yours. Am I right?"

Lady Lyanna raised an eyebrow, and Kevan wondered if the Mormonts may have a Lannister ancestor hidden somewhere.

"I can live with that. In fact, the King would prefer it so. Shall we now return to the mainland? I am sure that my people are already prepared to make suggestions to the making of your new docks."

"Of course."

As the group walked back to the deck, Kevan wondered how much Lannisport would change after this. Would it be bigger? Would steel ships be built here, more powerful than anything that had been encountered? Would it recover its past glories?

Would he live to see it all?

* * *

 **Omake - Battle of the Fingers, Part 1.**

Lady Wynafryd Manderly was the unofficial Queen of the Seas. How could she not be, she thought to herself as the _Seawolf'_ s bow plunged into the face of another wave, brutally pushing it aside as her engine roared, driving her into the wind at the full speed of 9 knots, directly into the wind. Spray washed off her face as her grin grew. Beside her, her sister, Wylla whooped and punched the railing, enjoying the descent before the massive Ship of the Line punched through another wave.

"This is the life." Wylla almost yodelled "A stiff breeze, nice swell and a ship that can do almost ten knots into the wind."

In front of them, sailors ran to and fro, carrying buckets, hauling barrels and getting ready for what they were sure would be a good and proper brawl by Northern standards. That this was defined by some as unfair, unsporting, cheating or evil sorcery was irrelevant. What mattered was the fact that this ship alone was going to prove to the lily arsed southerners that The North was more than willing to win any fight they could offer, not just on the land, but could devastate at sea too.

"King's Landing Ahoy", a sailor called down from the crow's nest. Truth be told, when the sea was calm, it was a job for only those with the strongest stomach. When the seas were up, like they were now with the three yard swell, even the Lookouts had to time their being sick to make sure it didn't hit anyone below. "Ten points off the Starboard Bow"

Wynafryd nodded and then nudged her sister, her beloved sister who was the First Mate on their precious bitch queen of a ship. "Wait until we are clear of the headland and bring us in. Lay Anchor a half mile off shore and have half a watch up in the rigging. We'll likely want the extra speed the sails bring when we draw them out."

Wylla nodded, her merriment fading as she prepared herself.

"Also, once we lay anchor, the gun crews should load both broadsides, Chain shot. I want to kill a few crew and take down some masts. Better a ship that can't make sail, than the risk of them getting lucky. We'll draw them out and kill them at sea. Don't run out the guns until the order is given."

Wylla glanced at her sister, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes. They had talked this plan and the other options to death already, really, all she was doing was repeating what Wylla already knew. Still, that's why her big sister was the Captain and she had the fun of giving the orders.

Jumping down from the Quarter to the Main Deck, Wylla began bellowing orders, pausing only to stick her head down a hatch and yell some more. The pace of the sailors increased if anything, dozens spilling out from below decks to start climbing the rigging, reef lines were undone, grabbed and re-fastened with quick release knots. Stays were tightened and Halyards were looped off against belaying pins while coils of lines were straightened out and made ready.

Like a graceful wolf, albeit one larger than anything else afloat, the _Seawolf_ to the eyes of those on the shore, seemed to race around the headland of Sharp Point into the lee of the massive bay that held Kings Landing. At first glance, many thought it to be afire, from the pillars of smoke that rose up from it and the lack of sails. But still it came. It crossed the way line and picked up a fraction of speed, no longer having to fight the wind and waves as it powered through, leaving a wake with white caps spraying off like knights' pennants.

In the harbour that was Kings Landing, bells were ringing, officers and lords were shouting and chaos reigned. The strong southerly wind had caused those in charge to declare that nothing would be coming south with any great speed. Indeed, with the size of the seas and the strength of the wind, which was thought to be around thirty knots, any intelligent captain would have put into a sheltered cove and waited out the weather, rather than inflict hours of torturous sailing on any good and decent noble. Not even the Iron Born would be willing to sail into the teeth of such weather.

Less than an hour after the massive anchor was dropped with the _Seawolf_ well out of range of any shore based artillery such as Ballistae or Catapults, even a Trebuchet would never reach that far, a lone skiff, the pennant of the Master of Ships flying proudly from its mast, shot out of the harbour with what an inexperienced sailor would call dangerous speed. The old salts however could only nod in appreciation of the fine bit of skippering.

As it drew along side, the sails furled and on the quarter deck could be the proud form of Lord William Mooton, Lord of Maidenpool and judging by the pennant, Master of ships. It seemed, that despite his new title and lot in life, it did little to weather his pasty skin and despite his breastplate showing defined muscles, he seemed more like a sock full of mud, than any great hero.

"Ahoy! Who comes to the King's Waters?" A stout bellow from actual captain of the skiff. "You fly no colours! Declare yourself!"

Wynafryd nudged her sister as she sauntered over to the railing, looking down at the Crown Loyalists. "The _Seawolf,_ out of White Harbour, on behalf of King Robb, King of the North and the Trident. Here with a message to the pasty faced Bastard Joffrey Waters, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms..." She smirked. "Well, actually, Four, but who's counting."

Behind her, she could hear Wylla trying to smother her own laughter as around her, sailors grinned and laughed.

On the deck of the skiff, Lord Mooton gasped in shock at the dire insults.

"A woman! Is the North so barren of sailors that they send a Woman to do a Man's job? I knew the North was full of barbarians, but for its leaders to hide behind a woman's skirts is beyond laughable. Send out your Captain that the men may speak." His voice may have a hint of a whine, but his words were full of bluff and pride.

Wynafryd darkened slightly and gripped the railing with both hands. "I am Lady Wynafryd Manderly. Daughter of the Lord Manderly, Captain of the _Seawolf_ and if you do not take back your words, I'll shoot you where you cower you miserable cringing lapdog!"

Lord Mooton frowned, his face darkening. "How dare you speak to your betters that way. I am the Master of Ships, I serve none but the True King of the Seven Kingdoms and I order you to strike your colours. You will surrender your ship and be taken prisoner. There at more than Thirty Galleys in service to His Grace King Joffrey in this harbour making ready. No such insult to the King, not even from Northern Barbarians who suck at the teats of wolves and bay at the moon, shall be tolerated. I order you to surrender!"

A death's head grin on her face, Wynafryd glared down at the little man. ""Hmm. A tempting offer Admiral, but I have a counter offer. How about l just massacre your ships and watch you drown? How would _that_ be? You see, at this point, _Seawolf_ is pretty much the Queen Bitch of the ocean ... and not your little King or your piles of gold will stand in the North's way _ever_ again."

From where he stood, William Mooton nodded and gestured to the captain. "So be it" He bellowed back as the Skiff stated to make way. "We will meet you on the Seas and The Stranger will take you. Prepare yourself Manderly. The wrath of King Joffrey will be coming for you."

As the skiff tacked and began the journey back, Wynafryd pounded the railing once then straightened.

"Right!" She bellowed out to the sailors of the North. "They want a fight. They have Ram's and Ballistae. They have Fire Arrows and some fire-ships. We have the best damn ship in the world. The Seas are ours to take and none shall insult The North and not face us."

Above and around her, sailors cheered as Wylla started bellowing orders. Coal was stoked into the furnaces, water poured into the boilers as steam pressure started to rise.

"Raise Anchor," came the cry as the jackass started to clank, hauling up the tons of steel that was needed to hold the Seawolf in place.

"Raise the Colours!" Came the next order as the huge flag of The North atop the flag of White Harbour was run up the stern stay.

"Starboard Side, Run out the Guns!" Then slams and booms as hatches were flung open and the massive Twelve Pound Brandon Burner Cannons were run out, their barrels poking out of the hatches like hounds noses through a fence, ready to bite.

"Load the Mortars. Incendiary rounds." came the next order as oil filled hollow cannon balls were carefully dropped into the mortars.

"Deck Crews, take your weapons." As barrels of breacher guns were hauled onto the deck while some men grunted as they hauled the Mk II Bolter onto the Poop Deck while others vary carefully carried the flamethrowers to the bow.

Then, when the boom of the Anchor slamming to the bow echoed, the order to Raise Sails was finally given as Wylla moved the engine indicator to half ahead. Behind the _Seawolf_ , the water frothed and churned as the massive bronze propeller bit into the water, pushing the giant ship forward. Sailors scrambled and worked frantically as three mast's worth of sails were raised. Mainsails and Foresails ballooned into shape as they caught the wind as the turning Seawolf began to prowl, turning to Port as it began to bear down on the now frantic with activity harbour. Stay Sails and Jibs were hauled into place and tied off before the wind caught them, pushing even more energy into the ship, driving it faster. The Engine indicator clicked again as the steam pressure built, Full Speed was the command as the _Seawolf_ fairly to speed.

As it drew closer, an optimistic shot from one of the massive shore emplaced ballistae fell short as the _Seawolf_ prowled closer before the order to Jibe was given out. The ship slowly turned, booms and sails slamming across, the ship heeling over before it began to right itself.

"Pick your Targets!" came the cry from Wylla as the _Seawolf_ ran parallel to the break water, well outside of ballistae range.

Then, at just the right moment, Wylla gripped the railing next to the wheel and at a nod from her Captain, her smile grew to a grin, a mixture of sensuous pleasure and vicious aggression. "FIRE!"

To those on the shore, gaping at not just at the size of the tremendous ship, but her speed and agility, it seemed as if something had gone horribly wrong. Smoke was no longer billowing from the two pipes at the stern, but now, the entire side of the massive vessel was wreathed with smoke as if there had been a terrible explosion. The sound of Thunder echoed across the entire bay and suddenly there were screams and cries from the King's Fleet. Fire erupted from the decks of three ships, and on two more, their main masts started to topple as crew leapt overboard from the rigging, rather than be dragged down with it.

The Battle had begun.


	41. Chapter 42

**LXXXVIII: Reflections on Peace**

 _AC 300, Blackwater Bay, King's Landing_

 **Theon Greyjoy**

Despite everything that had been inflicted upon it, King's Landing still stunk to high heaven from the deck of the _Seawolf_. The miasma was slightly less prevalent, but it was more like a burning pile of dung rather than just a pile of wet dung. I don't know if that was an improvement or not.

Actually, several sniffs of the wind blowing from the city and I was sure: It wasn't. I sighed, and turned from the view. I headed down the nearest ladder into the warmer interior of the great ship. I headed down the corridor to the staterooms in back, and pulled open the hatch. I sighed as I entered, and stretched a bit. I managed a small smile as I looked around at my quarters, filled with books, papers and other assorted junk… And Robb, sitting on my bed.

I raised my eyebrows. "I'm calling the Despoiler. I can see the headlines now: 'King Robb seduces his adoptive brother: Queen Margaery watches with popcorn.'"

Robb snorted and shook his head. "You've made that joke before."

"Still funny," I said with a shrug. Robb glared at me, and I coughed. "Okay, maybe not that funny. Margaery's made that joke before I take it?"

Robb was still silent, glaring at me with a face as cold as winter. I flinched, and rubbed my shoulder.

"I mean, if she was willing to marry Renly, I'm sure we could work… Something out… For improving your marriage. Things shouldn't die down just because you have a child on the way…"

Robb continued to glare, in a look he'd clearly learned from our father. I sighed, and looked back at him with a more respectful look in my eyes.

"Your Grace?" I asked.

Robb looked me over, silent and unyielding. He then took a deep breath, his hands on his knees.

"Theon… I'll make this plain," he said. "How long have you known the Others were returning?"

My fists clenched, and I closed my eyes tightly. I felt… Tired. Far more tired than I had ever remembered feeling.

Well, maybe after Golden Tooth…

"... A long time now," I admitted. "Probably since we met, actually."

Robb stared in confusion. "Since we… You're a seer."

"Of… A sort," I admitted. I shook my head at Robb's stare, and shrugged my shoulders. "I don't fully understand it myself, but… Yeah. Since we met."

"So, all the inventions? All the technology? All the reforms?" Robb asked. "It's all been… Preparation?"

For the first time in a long time, Robb was unreadable to me. And I have to admit, it frightened me just a little. Even in my quarters, even knowing he was my brother in all but blood and name, I felt like a stranger before an unyielding king.

"Partially," I said softly. I shook my head. "Look… I didn't know if what I saw would come true. A lot of the time, I was almost convinced I was insane. Probably something you wondered a lot yourself," I said with a poignant look at him. Robb snorted, but otherwise did and said nothing. So I continued.

"The technology though… The reforms, all of that? Yes, I wanted to make the North better able to survive a possible Second War for the Dawn. But I also wanted it to… To be worthy of survival," I said. "I wanted it to be a place people would willingly fight to protect and preserve. Because it genuinely tried to make the world a better place… Because I wanted to make it a better place. Because…" I trailed off, uncertain. Robb stared at me.

"Theon… Please," he said in a gentle tone. "I'm not angry, I'm just… I'm trying to understand," he said. I laughed a bit, feeling a lot less scared. Robb looked about, as though seeing himself for the first time. He scooted aside, and patted the bunk next to me. I took the invitation and sat down next to him.

"I know," I sighed. "I just wish I could explain it. It's… It's almost like the day I showed up at Winterfell, I had a whole other world's history and knowledge downloaded into my head."

"Down… Loaded?" Robb said, as though tasting the strange word. I shrugged.

"Yeah. Like, put into my head. The records from a civilization unlike any that have existed here on Planetos," I explained, wincing just a bit over the minor lie. "Or maybe they did, and they're gone now. Or they're not here yet…"

"So you're saying that either it's from a civilization that doesn't exist yet," Robb said, "or one that did and… Was destroyed by the Others?"

I nodded with a helpless shrug. "That's my best guess, yeah."

Robb sighed. "Any idea where it came from?"

I laughed humorlessly, and shrugged. "None. Zero. Zilch. I don't even remember what I did… If I did anything." I sighed and looked at my hands, as though they were the most interesting things in the world right now.

Robb shook his head, and snorted in a bit of laughter. "Why do you act like you've done something wrong?"

I looked over at Robb, who was smiling just a bit. I looked back at my hands, my cheeks flaring red.

"Well… You're good at doing the… The 'Father' thing," I said. "You know, how he'd look at us and you knew he was amused but he was also…" I trailed off, but Robb took over with a wistful smile.

"He was disappointed. And wanted you to do better. He knew you could do better, and he wanted you to know it too. To… Remember," Robb said softly.

I nodded. "Yeah…" I sighed and clenched my fists. "I was just… I was afraid. That if I talked about it, if I told anyone what happened… You'd just think I was crazy." I looked up at Robb. "And given I was taken as a hostage, I just…"

Robb lifted his arm, and wrapped it around my shoulders. I relaxed, just a bit.

"Theon, you've proven yourself again and again. So many times that I would never doubt you. Not ever," Robb stated. I smiled back at him.

"Thanks Robb," I said.

"And neither would Father," he said, squeezing my shoulder. "He'd be proud of what you've done. I know it."

I smiled back at him, and wrapped my arm around his waist. "He'd be proud of you too," I said. Robb nodded back, letting out a breath. He sighed and looked out, towards something beyond the ironwood and steel hull of the _Seawolf_.

"This war was just the warm up, wasn't it?" Robb asked. "The real war is coming. The real test."

I nodded. Robb took a deep breath.

"Theon… Tell me the truth," he said. "Can we win?"

I smiled back at him, and squeezed him in a half hug. "You know better than anyone that we can. And we will."

Robb nodded, screwing up his face to remember something. ""There is a greater darkness than the one we fight. It is the darkness of the soul that has lost its way. The war we fight is not against powers and principalities, it is against chaos and despair. Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams. Against this peril we can never surrender. The future is all around us, waiting in moments of transition, to be born in moments of revelation. No one knows the shape of that future, or where it will take us. We know only that it is always born in pain." "

I leaned back, staring at him in shock and awe. "You remembered that whole thing?" I asked, delighted. Robb nodded back.

"Well, I'm using it for a speech later," Robb admitted. "Would look like a fool if I had to read it verbatim off the paper." He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He then chuckled. I looked over at him, curious.

"What?"

"Just thinking that I was worried that I would have nothing more to do than speeches," Robb said. "Just long boring speeches, quiet nights with Margaery and our child... " He gave me a wry look. "Maybe not so quiet, when you're still around."

He squeezed me again. I squeezed him back.

"Yeah… Sorry," I murmured. Robb shook his head.

"It's not your fault."

"That's something I haven't heard for a while," I said dryly. Robb laughed again.

"Get used to it," he said. I shook my head.

"Fat chance," I muttered. Robb gave me another squeeze.

"So… What else do we have to worry about?" Robb asked. I sighed.

"Frankly, a lot of the knowledge I had about… Certain events is outdated now," I admitted. "That said? We're going to need dragons."

Robb nodded. "Then I leave that to you," Robb said. "And Sansa. You'll forgive me if I'm a little more concerned about her than the Targaeryan girl with dragons."

I smirked a bit. "Understandable." 

* * *

**LXXXIX: Reflections on Peace, Part 2**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, Oberyn's Manse_

 **Joffrey Baratheon**

 _Hate… Hate… Hate…_ All he knew, all he could feel, was hate. Hatred for the wretched Northerners, hatred for his traitorous Dog, hatred for everything and everyone who had failed him and betrayed him…

He hated his disgusting little uncle. He hated his uncle Jaime, for his betrayal and his silence. He hated his grandfather, for dying. He hated Littlefinger, nowhere to be found. He hated Lord Varys. He hated the little wolf bitch who had come by to gloat, her wretched wolf accompanying her and growling at him. He wasn't scared! No matter what she'd said, he wasn't scared! No!

"I'm not scared," he mumbled, "I'm _not_ scared… I hate them, I'm not scared…"

His prison was bare of anything save for a cot, a table, a chair, a wash bowl, a mirror - So little was given to him! The King! The true king, not some pretender from the North! Not some stupid boy no older than him! He was the King, he was, _he was!_

He tasted blood as he chewed on his nails, and hastily pulled his hand away. He shook as he stared at his fingernails: Once so clean and perfect, he'd begun chewing them out of fe-HATRED. He'd bit his finger. He went back to pacing the small room, looking around, holding his hands behind his back like his grandfather had often done.

He was not a bastard. He was not a product of incest! He was the King! _HE WAS THE KING!_

"I AM THE KING!" He screamed at the door. "I AM THE KING, **LET ME OUT!"**

There was no answer. Just as there had been no answer, every time he'd screamed before. Every time he'd cried… Joffrey sat down on his cot, clutching at the thin bedsheet he'd been given.

He shut his eyes tightly, trembling a bit. He had to be brave. He had to be brave… He wasn't afraid, he _wasn't_ afraid…

The locks on the door were undone, and Joffrey started as he looked up. He mustered up his greatest glare, squeezing the blanket to dispel his nerves. The door opened, and a boy entered.

His gaze was sallow and shaded. His hair was neatly coiffed and he had a thin beard. He wore a dark red coat over fine Northern clothing. His smile though was the worst part: It seemed to glow even in the low ambient light, reminding Joffrey of the fangs of a wolf. Joffrey trembled, the blood draining from his face. He knew this face. He _knew_ this boy.  
 _  
Ramsay Bolton… The Crimson Fucker…_

"Y-You… You…" Joffrey managed to stutter, glaring in defiance. "You! You _beast_!"

Ramsay took the chair from the nearby table, and dragged it across the floor. Joffrey winced at the sound, as Ramsay turned the chair around and sat down in front of him. Ramsay then leaned back in his chair and looked at him. Joffrey shivered.

"S-So… So! What are you going to do, huh?" Joffrey stammered. "Going to… To… To…!"

He tried very hard to think of any of the pictures he'd been sent… And couldn't. The images were too terrifying, so he tried to glare back at Ramsay. The boy was just sitting there, still staring. Joffrey shuddered.

"You… You useless **barbarian**! You stupid, _inbred tree worshipper_! You think I'm going to just - just kneel to you?! _Kneel_ to your wolf king? Your mongrel royals?!"

Ramsay still sat there, just staring. Not moving. Joffrey shivered again.

"M-My mother will come for me! You'll see!" He sputtered. "You had better let me go! You'll be sorry! You'll _all_ be sorry!"

Ramsay continued to stare. Silent. Unmoving. Joffrey leaned back, feeling the cold stone wall press into his back. He glared back at Ramsay, though he was having more and more difficulty meeting his eyes.

"If… If you want me to talk, I won't!" Joffrey stammered. "You're nothing! Just a bastard! Your mongrel kingdom will fall! And I'll have all your heads on the pikes of the Red Keep!"

And Ramsay… Continued to say nothing. Just kept staring. Joffrey spit on the floor, despite the admonition in the back of his head that his mother wouldn't have approved. Still Ramsay did not react. He didn't even move. He just breathed. _In. Out. In. Out. In. Out..._

"SAY _SOMETHING_!" Joffrey shrieked, throwing the blanket at Ramsay. Ramsay just caught it, and slowly lowered his hand. Joffrey cringed back, squishing himself as far from Ramsay as he could. And yet the Bolton Bastard just remained sitting. Staring. Silent.

He didn't know how long it was. He didn't know why. He tried insulting him again. He tried shrieking for help. Nothing came. No one helped. And nothing changed.

All that seemed to exist in that tiny room was him, and Ramsay Bolton's eyes. An implacable stare, boring into him. Making him feel small, insignificant…

"... What do you want?!" Joffrey screamed. "What do you _want_?! Are you going to kill me?! Are you going to _torture_ me?! Well?! _DO IT!"_

Ramsay still said nothing. Joffrey stood up and shook his hands over his head.

"DO IT ALREADY! You've sent me enough pictures! YOU'VE SENT ME ALL THOSE LETTERS! WHY DON'T YOU JUST DO IT NOW?! DO IT! _**DO IT NOW!"**_

He kept shrieking, over and over. Ramsay still said nothing. Still did nothing.

"JUST SAY SOMETHING! DO SOMETHING YOU BASTARD!" Joffrey bellowed, his throat feeling ragged. " _ **DO IT! DO IT! DO-"**_

Ramsay moved, and he was now towering over Joffrey. Joffrey squeaked, and he soaked his trousers in fear. He was left trembling as Ramsay grinned down at him, his eyes filled with unhealthy intentions. Joffrey collapsed to the cold floor, and wrapped himself into a ball.  
 _  
Don't hurt me don't hurt me don't hurt me…!_

At last, Ramsay snorted. Joffrey looked up. The Crimson Fucker wore a… A sneer. A sneer he'd worn himself many times.

"Guard," Ramsay spoke. "I'm done here. Open up." He walked over and knocked on the door three times. The guard opened up. Ramsay walked out, his red coat waving behind him. The door shut behind him, and the locks clicked shut. Joffrey stared after him, his jaw hanging open.

"... What… What…?"

What the Seven Hells…?! Why…?!

He was alive… He hadn't touched him. He hadn't done anything. Why? What was he doing?!  
 _  
WHAT WAS HE PLANNING FOR HIM?!_

\- - - - - - -  
 **  
Ramsay Bolton**

As much as it pained him to ask Theon for a private audience, Ramsay nevertheless sent the message and waited in the meeting room in the Manse. He waited, and waited… And was rewarded an hour later when Theon entered. He looked so concerned. As though he knew that Ramsay was distraught.

"Ramsay? What is it?" Theon asked urgently. "Are you okay?" He walked over and rested a hand on his shoulder. Ramsay took a deep breath, and let it out as a long, slow sigh.

"Theon," he said, "I feel I may not be able to serve you any longer."

He stared up at Theon, feeling tears spring to the corners of his eyes. Theon… Looked confused.

"Ah… Okay… May I ask why?" Theon asked kindly. Ramsay sniffled.

 _It's so shameful, but... I must tell him!_

"Because… As I was interrogating Joffrey Waters, I… I…" He shuddered. "I felt something… Strange."

Even an hour later, it was enough to make him shiver in disbelief. Theon, for his part, continued to look concerned and confused.

"... Okay… Can you describe it?" Theon asked. Ramsay managed a nod.

"It was… It was… A strange, clenching sensation… Yet also kind of… Of warm and kind of cold… And it… It made it hard for me to…" He shook his head. "I couldn't… Bring myself to harm him! Because it felt… Meaningless!" Ramsay shivered and shook, and let loose a sob. Theon was still, then slowly wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He patted him on his back, a bit stiffly.

"Uh… Well… That's pity, Ramsay," Theon explained.

"But I've never had that before!" Ramsay sniffled, burying his face in Theon's face. "What good am I to you if I can't kill for you?! Or torture, or maim?!"

Theon sighed. He then chuckled softly, a strange sound. Ramsay looked up, bleary eyed.

"Theon…?"

"Ramsay, you felt pity because… There would have been no meaning to Joffrey's pain and suffering and death. He's just a sad, pitiful wreck. A puppet with no strings. Killing him would have no point," Theon said consolingly, with a kind smile. "There are plenty of other people in the world whose deaths and terror will have meaning. People you can kill, and terrorize."

"But… But Joffrey was-" Ramsay sniffled. "I put so much work into it… And right now, I… I just couldn't…!" He sobbed. "It all feels so… So pointless!"

The anguish was almost palpable. Even Theon's hug didn't dispel it all. Nor did his shaking shoulders. Knowing Theon had empathy for him.

"It was not pointless," Theon said. "You did great work! But we weren't out to defeat a king, you know? But a system. A system grown decadent and corrupt. You did that just fine, Ramsay!"

He looked up into Theon's compassionate face, and snorted in an unmanly way.

"You… You really mean that, Theon?" Ramsay asked, daring to hope. Theon smiled and nodded.

"Of course I do," he said, patting Ramsay again. "Besides… Did you at least make Joffrey piss himself?"

Ramsay nodded. "Yes!"

"Well there you go," Theon said kindly. "I couldn't ask for anything more than that! Aside from maybe you volunteering to be his lawyer in the upcoming trial."

Ramsay gasped loudly. "I… I never considered that! Do you think-?"

"Sorry, Faerod Wright already called it," Theon said kindly, giving Ramsay a comforting shoulder squeeze. Ramsay sighed.

"Damnit…"

"Look on the bright side," Theon said. "I'm being sent to Essos to rescue Sansa. There are bound to be plenty of people for you to terrorize. Trust me Ramsay," and here Theon beamed, "I'm not running out of work for you any time soon."

Ramsay couldn't help himself. He hugged his Lord, squeezing him tightly.

"Thank you Theon! Thank you-!"

"Hands above the waist," Theon said sternly. Ramsay pouted.

His beloved Theon was so _frustrating_ sometimes…!

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	42. Chapters the Penultimate

**LXXXX: A Friendly Meeting, Part 1  
**

 _AC 300, Yunkai, Dragon's Bay, Essos_

 **Sansa Stark**

Daenerys Targaryen was not quite what Sansa expected. It seemed almost impossible, this slight, frail woman being the terror of Essos. The Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi, whose exploits had even made their way to King's Landing. Though at the time, she had a lot of other things on her mind. Still, she'd imagined a tall, intimidating warrior woman: Someone like Dacey Mormont. Not a girl she was actually taller than.

A girl who had invited her to tea, of all things. Iced tea. In a pleasant solar, well shaded and well ventilated. She didn't even have any guards on her.

The slight blonde woman sipped her tea, and smiled at her. "I hope you like it… Some of the Northern engineers showed us how to make small amounts of ice. Digging pits in the sand, covering them with tarp. It really is quite fascinating, don't you agree?"

"I… Yes, very fascinating," Sansa said with a slight nod. "We just got ice from… Well, various places in the North," she said.

"I can't even conceive of a place that cold," Daenerys said. She shook her head in mild disbelief. "What is it like?"

Sansa frowned. Was this an attempt to learn about the North? Any defenses? Technologies? What could she know? She wouldn't know anything useful, she had to know that… Unless Daenerys didn't know she did, or knew she didn't know or…

"It's… hard to describe," she said diplomatically.

"I suppose it is," Daenerys allowed. She smiled softly, studying her. Sansa studied her right back. They sat in silence for a time. Daenerys set her tea down, and sighed.

"Well… now that the pleasantries are over," the Dragon Queen said, "I suppose we should get to the core of things, shouldn't we? You feel that you've traded one prison for another, don't you?"

Sansa slowly nodded. "I don't feel. I know."

"How did you come here, anyway?" Daenerys asked. "I mean, the specific details…"

Sansa sighed. "It was… An experience," she admitted.

* * *

Her quarters were little more than a cell. She supposed it was better than having to share quarters with Cersei: how the rest of the crew stood her without wanting to throw her overboard, she would never know. Especially with her drinking and ranting as they braved the seas.

She had watched from the deck as the green flames began to consume King's Landing. She had hoped beyond hope that one of the Northern warships would see them, but they hadn't. They had just slipped away, into the dark night, as the flames rose into the sky.

They wouldn't see her. They wouldn't be rescuing her… A fact that Cersei had gloated over eagerly in the stateroom after. It took every ounce of her strength not to stab her with her dinner knife: The guards with Cersei stood in silent menace and utter obedience. Some of the Unsullied, she recalled. They didn't smile, or speak. They just stood there, like steel work dolls. Even the crew, for all their mixed emotions, wouldn't cross them.

As a result, she was taking care of Tommen. He was understandably frightened, the little boy. She had never felt any resentment towards him: He'd had to put up with Joffrey far more than her. They shared that pain. They shared their fear.

All they could do was stay together, weather the waves; sleep in the same bunk, holding each other. There was nothing else. It was here, under a filthy blanket, that she knew the price for saving Arya. It was here that she let herself cry, hidden by the creaking of the timbers, the wind in the sails…

Then came the third night on the sea. The sound of thunder broke, and Sansa shivered with Tommen clinging to her… then came more cracks of thunder. Faster. Cries of pain from the crew, and the shouts of men. Sansa's eyes widened, her heart beating in time with the shots.

"What… What is it?" Tommen whispered. Sansa felt a smile on her face, for what felt like the first time in forever.

"Gunfire," she whispered. She pushed Tommen down to the deck, and dragged herself across to the hatch. She peeked out, staying low. Yes… Green light in the dark hallway! Flares! She knew their shape and color from all the times Theon had shown them off!

"In here! Please, help us!" she shouted. "PLEASE! HELP US!"

She felt someone knock on the hatch, and she knocked back hard with her fist. An answering knock made her grin. "YES! IN HERE!" she shouted again.

There was a harder knock on the door, and Sansa could see the teeth of a crowbar being forced into the crack between it and the bulkhead. She slid back, wrapping an arm around Tommen.

"What… What if the Northerners…?" Tommen muttered. Sansa shook her head.

"I won't let them hurt you. I promise," she said. The hatch came loose with a loud crack and splintering, revealing two men holding green flares. They were dressed in dark cloaks, with tall boots. Both were bald with tattoos across their bare scalps. Tommen squeaked, but Sansa just smiled.

"I am Lady Sansa Stark… Sorry, _Princess_ Sansa Stark," she said. "Please, take me to your captain!"

The two men looked at each other, then back to Sansa. They nodded, and stepped back. They motioned to the left,and Sansa and Tommen slowly rose. They stumbled a bit, but got out of the room and headed down the hallway. The two sailors followed, still silent. Sansa didn't know why, but she didn't care. Northerners! They were saved!

They made it to the deck, where a clear sky filled with glittering stars greeted her. And there, shining in the waning moon's light, were the sails of a Northern schooner. A small one, to be sure, but she had never seen another ship like it! The crew was being held by more of the sailors in dark cloaks. And then came the most beautiful sight of all.

"UNHAND ME! I AM THE QUEEN OF WESTEROS! I'LL HAVE YOUR COCKS CUT OFF AND FORCED DOWN YOUR THROATS!" Cersei shrieked, bound in rope before a tall, long haired man in a black cloak. He wore an eyepatch, over a handsome roguish face. One that put Sansa in mind of someone familiar…

 _Theon…?_ she thought. No, this man was older.

"Quite a mouth on you, Your Grace," he said, perfectly pleasant. He looked over at Sansa, and smiled. "Damn… Aren't you a gorgeous one?"

"Uh," Sansa began. Still, she'd put up with worse. She wouldn't… What was the phrase? Look a gift horse in the mouth? What did that even mean? "Thank you, kind captain. May I ask for your name?"

"Euron Greyjoy," the man said with a grin and a bow, "King of the Iron Isles… and you're my prisoner!"

Sansa blinked. Euron Greyjoy blinked a few times, and then shook his head.

"I mean… I'm rescuing you. Yes, that is what I meant," he said with a nod.

Strangely, she was still reminded of Theon… But the unhealthy glint in the man's eyes gave her reason to be worried. Still, she'd approach it with tact and decorum. Like any invention of her foster brother's. Something that might explode.

"So… I can return home then, Your Grace?" Sansa asked politely. Euron smiled.

"All in good time… all in good time… for now? I think she needs a bit of behavior adjustment. And by behavior adjustment, I mean smacking her around. What do you all think?" He asked both crews. Both his crew and the ship's crew seemed to like this, even as Cersei screeched again.

Euron nodded, smiling in an incredibly cheerful way. "Okay!"

Euron smacked her across the face, sending Cersei to the deck. He then kicked her. Sansa felt someone sob into her chest, and she looked down at Tommen. He was crying, clutching at her. Sansa looked up, as Euron continued to kick Cersei. She winced.

"Your Grace…? Perhaps you shouldn't do that in front of Queen Cersei's son?" Sansa suggested. Euron immediately stopped, and looked over at her curiously.

"So I should do it behind closed doors?" He asked. He shrugged. "Well! Anything for a princess, right? Lads! Bring her on board."

"YOU STINKING FILTH! YOU'LL ALL LOSE YOUR HEADS AND-"

"And someone? Kindly gag her?" Euron asked. One of his men proceeded to tie a strip of cloth around her mouth, leaving the Queen to whimper and screech - albeit very muffled. Euron stared intently at Sansa, which made her feel more than a little uncomfortable.

"And the Princess… would you join me in my stateroom?" Euron asked, trying to smile and looking like he was having difficulty doing it without pain. Sansa very slowly nodded.

"I… of course, Your Grace…?"

Just what had she gotten into now…?

* * *

 **LXXXXI: A Friendly Meeting, Part 2**

 _AC 300, Yunkai, Dragon's Bay, Essos_

 **Sansa Stark**

The captain's cabin onboard Euron's ship was quite spacious. Sansa was reminded of the Lady Lyanna back in White Harbor: She'd attended the christening with her father and Theon. The first ship of the new Navy of the North. Her father had christened the ship himself, breaking a bottle of Whitehill Rum against the prow. She could still remember being there: The smell of the sea air, the roar of the crowd, the creaking of the timbers. She'd been so young... And yet it still hung in her memory like a perfect photograph on the wall.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Euron asked. Sansa started. Her mind had been drifting. The reminders of home were just so strong... She took a deep breath, and fought back tears. Tears she had held back for what felt like an eternity.

"Your vessel is quite impressive," she said diplomatically. She looked around the stateroom: It was bare, save for some maps and instruments. It really did not seem the type of dwelling for an infamous Ironborn lord. Euron just grinned, his eye shining in the lamplight, as he reached out and cupped her cheek. She sucked in a deep breath.

"Wasn't talking about the ship," he murmured, baring his teeth like a wolf. Sansa stiffened, began to pull away as he leaned in, his breath heavy with a strange scent... And then his eyes widened, and he smacked the side of his head as though forgetting something important.

"Ah! Right, sorry, forgot," he said with a nod, pulling back.

"Forgot... What?" Sansa asked, mystified. Euron shrugged and tilted his head.

"I'm not fucking you! That's what I forgot!" He said cheerfully. Sansa's jaw dropped and her cheeks flared red.

"I - what?"

"Nothing personal. In fact, under other circumstances I would be banging you crosseyed over my desk," Euron said. He turned to his desk and grinned, hands on his hips. "In fact, that is the only reason I got a desk for my room on this ship! Well that and meetings. Wouldn't do to have everyone hold their meat and bread. Well I suppose you could hold your meat but - Oops! Sorry, there I go again!" Euron turned back to Sansa, still grinning. Sansa was, understandably, quite confused and a little frightened.

"I... I'm... Sorry?" Sansa tried. Euron smacked himself again.

"Sorry! Right... That's a new word. For me. Trying to figure out how best to use it, when to... I've offended you, correct? Should I say sorry for wanting to fuck you? Or just talking about it?" Euron inquired. Sansa was left blinking, and she was uncomfortably reminded of Theon when he was on a roll.

"I... Apologize for the disrespectful words?" Sansa tried. Euron nodded.

"Right, right... I should do that. After all! I'm not stealing my nephew's girl. That would be..." He tilted his head, like a confused puppy. "Rude?"

Sansa, again wondering what she had done to warrant these kinds of things in her life, just slowly nodded. Euron grinned and clapped.

"Yes, see? That is the other reason I kidnapped you! I mean, rescued. Totally rescued."

"Your Grace, I'm sure my brother the King would reward you handsomely for 'rescuing' me," Sansa emphasized, feeling quite cross now. Euron nodded.

"You're probably right. But! And just go with me on this one... What if in addition to rescuing you, I did a whole lot of other things to endear him to me?" Euron grinned. "He'd reward me even more, right?"

"I... Think you could name your price with what you currently have?" Sansa suggested. Euron spun around, and shook his head.

"No! No no, that just won't do! I mean, I'm already on another errand: I'm picking up a beautiful lady with dragons for my wife. Already committed to it." Euron again tilted his head, staring at Sansa's shoulder. "At this point, I can't really turn around. And how disappointing would that be? I just rescue you, deliver you to your brother, and happily ever after?" He rapidly shook his head. "No no no! That will not do! Not at all!"

Sansa had the feeling she was once again putting up with a madman. So she took a deep breath, and counted to ten. It was something her mother would do when Robb, Jon and Theon's antics had gotten her ruffled once more.

"So I am, in effect, your hostage," Sansa said. Euron stared at her. Sansa continued, "which means you aren't rescuing me, merely kidnapping me."

"Ah, but there is a difference!" Euron said with an eager nod.

"And that is?" Sansa prompted. Euron hummed.

"... I'm... Not going to harm you?" He asked. Sansa stared. "Isn't that the main difference?"

"No," Sansa stated, almost growling in frustration. Euron sighed.

"All right... So... To rescue you, what do I need to do?"

"... Are you being sarcastic?" Sansa asked, finally exasperated enough to just let loose. Euron blinked.

"No... I'm pretty sure if I was being that, I'd say something like 'Of course I'm not going to ravish you and take you for my salt wife. And I wouldn't enjoy it at all, either.' That would be sarcasm," Euron said with a sage nod. Sansa stared in disbelief.

"So... You're actually going to return me to my brother at some point, yes?" Sansa asked. Euron nodded eagerly.

"Oh absolutely! That's definitely in the plan! I am not being sarcastic! I am also going to wed you to my beloved nephew."

Sansa flushed. "I - What?!"

"Well, what's wrong with him?" Euron asked flatly. "There someone better for you? I'm sure your mother would approve... Would she approve? It just seems like something people say, so I-"

"Completely disregarding that," Sansa said evenly, "you seem a bit... Um... Off?"

Euron nodded, and held up a small potted plant. Sansa immediately recognized it: A tiny weirwood sapling.

"Oh... Well you have to understand, I've had a revelation," Euron said. "A religious vision! A fit, a view, something to change my entire viewpoint on all of reality, so I'm a little... Out of sorts." He shrugged. "It had something to do with this tree."

"... Uh huh," Sansa said slowly. Euron nodded.

"Yes! I was invoking some magics I learned off of... You know, it doesn't matter. Point is! When I invoked it with this tree... I saw..." His eyes widened. "Everything."

"... Everything?" Sansa asked softly, gazing at the tree. She didn't know why, but somehow... She felt the honesty in his words.

"Everything... A revelation," Euron said with a nod. "And in this revelation... I realized..." He set the pot down reverently, "that I needed to rescue you, marry Daenerys, and do a few other things... Things I'm not completely sure about. But I know... I know I must do them." He looked at Sansa with shining eyes.

"... I see," Sansa said with a nod. She sighed. "... If you will allow me a few... Conditions, while I am your... Guest, then I might be able to help."

"Really?" Euron asked, almost childlike in his delight. "I was going to ask you about that, given it's a weirwood tree and you're a Stark but - Lovely! I don't have to torture you for it!"

"Yes," Sansa said stiffly, "that is lovely..."

* * *

Daenerys stared in some disbelief at Sansa. The young Stark looked down at her drink, the ice long ago dissolved.

"So... He's insane, then," Daenerys said. Sansa nodded.

"Probably," she said, holding back a few suspicions of her own. She didn't know if she could trust this Daenerys, but sowing mistrust between her captors seemed the wisest move.

Daenerys sighed. "... Well then... I suppose all that remains is to invite Theon Greyjoy to us," she smiled. "After all... Opening diplomatic relations is my goal. Will you help me with that, Sansa?"

"Of course, Khaleesi," Sansa said, forcing a smile. "Why shouldn't I-?"

"Help other people keeping you captive?" Daenerys asked wryly. Sansa frowned, and Daenerys smiled back mirthlessly. "Believe me... At this point? I know full well how it feels."

"Oh?" Sansa looked out the window of the palace, to the distant bay. A bay that was still close enough she could make out numerous ships, flying red kraken flags. "Oh... Yes... I suppose you do..."

"Indeed," Daenerys said dryly.

Sansa looked at the Dragon Queen with new eyes. She couldn't bring herself to fully trust her... Indeed, there was still no guarantee she wouldn't betray her to escape her situation entirely. At least for the moment though... She had an ally again.


	43. And yet again still even more chapters!

**LXXXXII: Iron, Silver and Gold, Part 1**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, Westeros_

 **Theon**

  
Two months. Two months of writing messages, delivering orders, overseeing repairs, and pretty much anything else you could imagine. I had gotten more help in managing things as more literate Northerners took positions in the new Commonwealth provisional government. Getting Southerners had been difficult, since screening for Littlefinger supporters was difficult. Having Varys around helped with that: His intelligence network was invaluable. Though I had every single of his contacts assigned a Northern operative to keep them honest. All of this was done in a shit-smelling city that was lying mostly in ruins. The only things that kept me from going insane was my beloved family... And time away from my beloved family. Like today.

I'd gotten aboard the carrack _Alligator,_ which was on a patrol of the Blackwater Bay towards the Narrow Sea. The captain, Captain Argon Ironclad, was a friend of mine who had flunked out of the Mechanics Guild but had worked his way up to captain in the Royal Northern Navy. So he was fine with me taking a spin with his valiant crew...

"As long as you don't touch anything," Argon said. I scowled.

"Dude! I basically invented modern sailing!"

"And you've done enough," he said, patting me on the shoulder. "So relax, Theon. Please."

"... You're afraid I'll blow something up, aren't you?" I said, still scowling. Argon smiled and shook his head.

"Of course not... I just want you to deal with this, uh... Gentleman," Argon said, quickly heading off towards the aft. I looked over at a nearby man in spectacles, wearing a nervous smile as he held a pencil and a notebook.

"Milord?" Eddard Shorthand said. "It's nice to see you again."

"... Hey Eddard," I said, far less enthusiastically. Oh sure, I was proud of the fact that the first free press in the history of Westeros had arisen from the North. Okay, more or less free press. I had done my best, come on. That said, I wasn't exactly keen on talking to reporters.

"So... Failed to escape this time, huh?" He asked with a knowing smile. I sighed and shrugged.

"Pretty much, yeah. So! What shall we talk about?"

\- - - - -

Shorthand and I were leaning against the railing overlooking the Blackwater. The great expanse of the Narrow Sea beckoned, and I could almost imagine the coast of Essos as a line in the distance. The reporter groaned and held his stomach.

"Ohhh... Ohh Gods..."

"It's okay, it's okay," I said, patting the seasick reporter. He groaned and rubbed his cheeks. "Look, seasickness sucks for everyone. Believe you me."

"Th-Thanks," he stuttered. "Sure... So... Where was I?"

I was tempted to mess with him... But let's be honest, that wasn't good for the future of free press. So I took a deep breath.

"You were asking about the future of the Commonwealth?" I asked. Shorthand nodded.

"Y-Yeah... I mean, given this is the second time the North's had to come down South to sort out this nonsense. A lot of readers of the _Despoiler_ have written letters, asking why we don't just stay uninvolved."

"We left a hell of a mess, and if we want to avoid having to come down here again for a third time, we need to clean it up," I said. "At least, that's the assessment of King Robb, myself, and many other advisers."

"Then you intend to commit the forces of the North to resolving the issues of the rest of Westeros? Such an extended campaign would be costly."

I nodded. "I don't disagree, Eddard. Hence why the Commonwealth is a group effort. Other kingdoms pay us to train them up and get them back on their feet, so they can manage their internal security without us. And more than that, so we all have economic and military ties to bind us together." I nodded.

"The Seven Kingdoms had that, though," Shorthand pointed out.

"Yes, enforced by Valyrian rules and concepts that are seriously outdated," I said with a nod. "In the Commonwealth, everyone has more of a stake in their kingdom. Not just nobles. Smallfolk too. This way, we're more like citizens, than subjects."

Eddard smirked a bit. "Very eloquent and idealistic, Lord Greyjoy. As usual. But no more than I've gleaned from other sources."

I shrugged. "Truth is, I prefer inventing to all this politicking. Seriously, that is just exhausting." I sighed and rubbed my forehead. "And we've got bigger headaches to come," I grumbled.

"The rebuilding of the kingdom, the actual establishment of the Commonwealth, and the forthcoming summit with the Iron Bank of Braavos and other foreign representatives?" Shorthand guessed, furiously scribbling notes. I looked over at him with an impressed expression.

"Varys must be feeling envious right now," I said. "Mind revealing your sources to me?"

"No good reporter ever does that, my Lord," Eddard grinned. "You know that... Besides, I'd have to incriminate you too, wouldn't I?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, the picture of innocence as I looked back at the water.

Shorthand nodded, and looked with me.

"Of course, my lord. Of course."

We both looked out at the sea, and took deep breaths. I groaned.

"Damnit, I can still _taste_ it!" I complained.

"I worked on a pig farm most of my life and I agree," Shorthand said with a nod. He took down notes. "Would you say it's more like shit mixed with despair and burning, or shit mixed with burning garbage and rotting meat?"

"And I think the interview is over, if you're asking softball questions like that," I said.

"Softball?" Eddard asked. I sighed.

"Nevermind..."

 **XCIII: Iron, Silver and Gold, Part 2**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, Westeros_  
 **  
Catelyn**

The travel time between the North and the South seemed to shrink ever further every time she took the journey. The last time, it had been via the _Seawolf_ : A mighty vessel to be sure, and fast, making the journey in a matter of three weeks. Back on the train and carriage, only two weeks. Now, she looked out at King's Landing's docks, only a little over a fortnight out from White Harbor. The large sails of the HNMS _Wolfswood_ pulled the great ship along, but she could still feel the vibration of the new steam engines working hard via the railing she held onto.

She had thought she had caught sight of the Eerie, far in the distance, as they passed the Fingers days ago. Half-imagined, she could almost see the mountain peaks of the Vale. Almost her sister's face, and the face of her nephew. Almost see the glint of madness and grief in those eyes.

She had shuddered, not wishing to think further on it. Catelyn pulled back into herself, closing her eyes. She took deep breaths, letting the sea air fill her lungs and letting her mind drift to happier thoughts.

"Goodmother?"

She opened her eyes and looked over at Margaery. She smiled warmly at her. The young woman had been… Difficult to read at the start, but after several months she had grown fond of her son's wife. Her tall bodyguard, Captain Lady Brienne, still haunted her steps even now.

"Hello Margaery," Catelyn greeted, extending her arms for another hug. Margaery returned it, slightly stiff. She supposed she may have been very affectionate as of late, but learning she carried her first grandchild made Catelyn feel so very, very old. Yet so very happy at the same time.

"You have been taking much time for yourself, as of late," Margaery observed, her green eyes glinting softly in the still warm sun. She was wearing one of the latest Northern fashions from Kiara Mills' catalogue: A blue and red dress, underneath a matching jacket with silver buttons. It made her look every inch the regal queen, and Catelyn approved. "I thought I would check up on you," the queen said.

"Thank you, Margaery," she said gratefully. She sighed as she looked back upon the sea, Margaery's presence a comforting one at her side. The shouts of men and women crew, the calls of gulls, and the wind were the only sounds for a time.

"It feels like another lifetime since I saw these shores in peace," Catelyn confided. Margaery nodded.

"I admit to some trepidation of my own, goodmother," Margaery replied. "I had begun to call Winterfell home…"

"Yes," Catelyn agreed. "The greenhouses in the Caverns surely helped with that, as they did for me."

Margaery laughed, a bit self consciously. "I'm afraid I'm not as rugged as you Northerners," she apologized. "Despite what the press claimed about me-"

"Please," Catelyn said gently, "please… Speak forthrightly? I have had enough of political games for now."

Margaery took a deep breath and sighed, letting out a hint of irritation. This, Catelyn believed, was far more trustworthy.

"Yes, well… I have missed Robb and my family terribly," she admitted. "Getting to know all of the North was… Overwhelming. Almost exhausting."

Catelyn granted her a sincerely kind look, and squeezed her hand. "Believe me, I know," she admitted. "Every day, it seemed, Theon would come up with something new, and one of those he taught came up with something else new, and then there would be explosions and fire and people laughing…" She sighed, and rubbed her temple. "He was enough for four mothers to deal with. Combined with everyone else…?"

Margaery laughed, a bit deeper than her usual graceful tinkling giggle. "I suppose that is the normal state then… For you. Constant change."

"It hasn't been all bad," Catelyn admitted with a smile. "I had no joy at first dealing with the ladies of the Textiles plant, but given we all shared a single love… It was pleasant enough. They seem to get along without me just fine, despite their protestations."

"And that theater tribute to you was very moving," Margaery said. Catelyn groaned.

"Embarrassing, more like it. Especially dealing with Grennan Blest. 'Finest actor in the North', indeed! He has the ego for ten mediocre ones!"

"He was good enough as Hamnet," Margaery commented, smiling almost sadly. "I myself felt my heart almost break during that… Soliloquy?"

Catelyn nodded. "Mm. I suppose he's earned his status," she observed softly, thinking back to how she had treated Amarda.

"I hope I have earned as much with you, goodmother," Margaery said, a bit more carefully. Catelyn smiled, and squeezed her hand.

"More than enough," she confided. She sighed and looked back at the approaching King's Landing. "I hope I live long enough to see what we will do for this city. What we will make it into. All the wretchedness, the betrayal, the spite, the greed… If we could remove even a bit of it, to make it something worthwhile, I would be content."

"It will take more than these wonders to do that, goodmother," Margaery cautioned. "Far more."

"I know," Catelyn said quietly. "I allow myself so little hope now… I have to hold onto something."

"We will find Bran, I know we will," Margaery counseled her, stroking her shoulder. "We found Arya, didn't we?"

"Yes," Catelyn nodded, "yes we did…" She still had to remind herself of that fact, which is why she kept the letter from her in her coat pocket at all times.

"Begging yer pardon, Yer Grace, Lady Catelyn, Major Tarth," a sailor said, his hat in his hands and his head bowed politely, "there's a raven from His Majesty awaiting you."

She saw Margaery's concerned expression. Catelyn shook her head, smiling comfortingly.

"I will gladly take it," Margaery said with a smile. She looked over at Catelyn. "Will you be all right, Goodmother?"

"Just fine, Margaery," she said. "Go. We'll see Robb soon enough."

The Queen curtseyed, and walked off, Brienne ever following her in silence. Catelyn looked back at the water, taking deep breaths. Another sailor ventured up alongside, at a respectful distance.

"My Lady?" He asked. Catelyn looked over at him. He was young, younger than Robb but only by a little. Freckles across round cheeks, and a broad chin. "Are you all right? Can I get you anything?"

"No," she said softly, her eyes returning to the horizon. She saw a familiar banner on a galley, far off. She narrowed her eyes. She heard the sailor's steps as he departed, and raised her hand. "Wait. Can you get me farseers?"

"Yes my Lady," the sailor said. He produced a pair from his belt, and she took them. She held the heavy things up and focused on the ship, which was bigger in her vision but blurry. "Sorry my lady, let me adjust those…"

He reached over and turned knobs, the image slowly coming into focus. Her eyes narrowed, and a flash of anger struck through her breast like a bolt of lightning.

"That's the _Sea Falcon_ ," the sailor identified. "A Vale ship, yes?"

"Yes. The Lord of the Vale's ship," Catelyn said tightly.

"Lord Baelish, right?" The sailor asked. "You would know better than me, My Lady, given… Ah…"

She turned a baleful glare on him, and he stuttered. "Ah, I-I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Catelyn closed her eyes tightly, and tried to calm herself. "You did nothing," she said. She opened them, taking a deep breath. "My apologies, Seaman…?"

"Ah… Paxtan Drumm, My Lady," he said politely. Catelyn hummed.

"From Barrowton? The Barrowton Drumms?"

"Yes my Lady," he said with a smile at the recognition from the Royal Mother. "Got accepted to the Navy. Me folks were so proud."

"Good," Catelyn said. "Well, Seaman Drumm. I have another task for you. Go to my stateroom. Bring me my revolver, in my valise. Bring it to me, here. Tell no one."

"Ah… Yes my lady?" Paxtan said, trying to hide his confusion but failing. "It will be done, my Lady." He turned and headed off, leaving Catelyn to look back at the ship. The rage returned, but she kept her calm.

 _Petyr…_ She thought, _this will be the last time we meet. I will remember it long after… Long after, indeed._

Lord of the Vale or not, she would kill Petyr. She would have her revenge...

\- - - - -

 **XCIV: Iron, Silver and Gold, Part 3**

 **** _AC 300, King's Landing, Westeros_  
 **  
Theon**

I held the binoculars to my eyes and studied the galley as it rowed slowly towards the dock. It was a massive example of it's sort: almost three hundred oars, a heavy iron ram, it's bow decorated with gold, the sail woven with the emblem of the Vale. The Sea Falcon was one of the most powerful warships in Westeros ... or at least, it had been.

Today, the galley was escorted by two frigates of the Royal Navy, the Brandon and the Rickard. Tall, three masted vessels, their lines were sharp, razed low to the water with only a vestigial aftcastle, their sides were studded with cannon ports. There was no need for elaborate decorations, apart from their carved figureheads: like all Royal warships, their hulls were painted dark grey with a white stripe along the gunports. Without rams or oars, they would have been considered prey a decade ago, mere targets for the heavier, longer galley ... but that was then. Now, the galley was completely outclassed.

If that wasn't a metaphor for the changing times, I don't know what is: a mounted knight in full armour with pennant flying might be a splendid sight, but against a common trooper in wolf-grey carrying a rifle ... I shook my head.

Lowering the glasses, I passed them to Robb. "We're gonna have to work out what we're gonna do with him," I stated, even as the king raised the glasses to study the warship himself. We stood on the battlements above the Mud Gate. Below us flowed a constant stream of fishmongers, traders, and Northern personnel. All, in one way or another, victims of Petyr Baelish's machinations.

"I want to kill him," said Robb, his voice calm without a hint of rancor. Some part of me shivered, remembering a kind, friendly boy who welcomed me to Winterfell as a child, but I kept my face straight. This wasn't my brother Robb speaking: it was the King in the North and the Trident. "After everything he's done, after everything Mother, you, and even Tyrion said ... he deserves to _die_."

I took a slow, calming breath.

"I don't disagree," I stated, resting my hands on the red stone of the battlements. "Still, he's your cousin's guardian, was married to your aunt, and is coming to bend the knee in the name of the Vale. With them joining us, it's just a matter of organizing the Stormlands and dealing with the Islands, and then we're _done_ , Robb. There won't be anyone left to fight South of the Wall, and we can focus on what _really_ matters: getting Sansa back, and getting ready for the real war."

"I know," sighed Robb, lowering the glasses. "And if I kill him, or even arrest him, what message will that send to Lord Royce, to the other Lords of the Vale, to cousin Robert?" He shook his shaggy head, and beside him Grey Wind growled, low and vicious. "But I really, _really_ want to kill him."

I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "I know… I know." I took a deep breath. "We'll deal with him later. For now? Other problems, all right?"

Robb managed a nod, and looked over at me with the same intensity Grey Wind could muster. "Preparations?" He asked.

I looked over the missives I held in my hand. "Proceeding, but slowly. Wartime production levels are still going, since the contracts are still in place. The excess will be diverted to the Wall for 'testing purposes.' The first levies are returning home." I gave him a small smile. "I thought having the Venture bringing home the first couple of troops to White Harbor would be a nice touch. Make for a nice photo op."

Robb nodded, Grey Wind smirking for him. "Good. Jon?"

I sighed and flipped through the pages. I needed to invent better page dividers. "He's got several thousand Free Folk ready to settle on the Gift. Which is going to be fun times, let me tell you." I shook my head. "I don't envy the guy who has to sort all that out."

The Northerners were a fiercely independent people, but they hated Wildlings. And the Wildlings weren't too fond of us back. That much animosity in the old timeline was more manageable due to the fact our side didn't have guns then. Now? Now, it seemed like a disaster in the making. Even the prospect of icy apocalypse couldn't dampen the enthusiasm these people took to tearing each other apart!

Though I suppose that was just human nature.

"I know," Robb said with a sigh. "If I could, I'd put you in charge of it… But with Sansa and Daenerys? I need dragons, Theon. _We_ need dragons."

"Yeah, I know," I grumbled.

"I've got the Karstarks on it," Robb said. I raised my eyebrows, and he shook his head. "Torrhen's proven a fine leader and with the appropriate-"

"Babysitters?" I asked. Granted, the Karstarks were loyal and able allies, but diplomats? Not exactly.

"Advisors," Robb corrected, "I'm sure he'll do fine. With the right people to guide him."

I nodded. "Probably," I admitted. I looked back over my notes. "The Martells are all set up and are holding a press conference in the next few hours concerning the Commonwealth. Scuttlebutt says they're in favor of it, so this should just be a routine announcement. Your honored goodfather is already preparing a feast. And the Wolfswood will be docking soon with Mother and Margaery."

And Amarda, I thought, but I didn't have to say that. Robb could tell my thoughts went to her immediately.

I set down the papers on the red stone, grimacing a bit. The stink was still bad. I didn't know how Robb and Grey Wind withstood it! Their senses had to be _much_ better than mine.

Robb nodded. "It's a start… A slow start, but at least we're moving." He looked at me with a concerned expression. "What's wrong?"

I suppose I wasn't able to hide anything from him anymore. I turned my pensive gaze to my brother and king, and shrugged a bit sheepishly.

"I just… I sometimes wish I could be in multiple places at once."

Guilt, fear, anguish: All of that had been driving me since day one in Westeros. Now, with the real war on the horizon, I was finding so much left to handle. So much _more_ to do. So many larger headaches, and I was soon to leave this place... Leave my home, to go to a foreign land on a desperate mission. It was a bit harrowing, if I'm honest.

"Theon, if anyone deserves gratitude for all he's done, it's you. So stop being unhappy with never getting enough done. You have," Robb said, reaching out to grip my shoulder. I smiled back, and got at least a bit of warmth back. He was still my brother, despite the burdens laying ever thicker on him like snow in winter.

He then smirked at me, a wolfish humor in his gaze. "Besides, you'd drive yourself insane in five minutes. Tops."

"Please. Ten minutes," I huffed. "Give me a little credit."

"Do you always have to have the last word?" Robb asked.

"Asked the King," I said dryly.

"I'm not wrong," Robb said.

"I guess not," I admitted.

\- - - - -

 **Written with a great deal of help from Gladiusone.**

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	44. The Game Returns: Bear vs Squid XCV

**Bear vs Squid: Round ∞... FIGHT!**

 _Once more, unto the breach..._

At least, that was how she felt.

Then again, it _was_ her fault. Sort of.

She had boasted well enough of her men's capabilities, fully demonstrated in the brief time between the _Old Bear_ 's construction and the end of the war against the Lannisters. How they had sunk a goodly part of their fleet, and then left the Lannisport docks a ruin – which was now being rebuilt after her own visit to Lannisport.

Then, news came from Casterly Rock: apparently, Theon Greyjoy's entreaties with his sister had failed to produce the expected result, and the fuckers had decided to keep up with their 'Old Ways' attitude. Only, this time they were going against a weaker enemy: the Westerlands, which she had so efficiently left bereft of any means to defend itself from attacks by the sea. So, now they requested, following the terms of the alliance signed between King Robb and Lord Tyrion Lannister, the support required to repel their attacks, and hopefully put an end to their madness.

Ah, the staggering irony of what she had to do now. Save their former enemies from their ancient enemies.

And that was how she now found herself Admiral of the Sunset Sea Fleet of the North, combining Bear Harbor's and Deepwood Motte's ships under one structure. Sure, it was not so long ago that the Mormont's HNMS _Seawolf_ , flagship of the Narrow Sea Fleet, had made its way along the western coast to escort then-Lady Margaery Tyrell, now Queen Margaery, from the Reach to Seagard. Here, in the west, it was her ships that ruled the roost.

In this case, _her_ ship, the HNMS _Old Bear_. And the associated fleet, of course, formed by ships of every class, from _Season_ \- and _Winterfell_ -class brigs to the _Dagger_ -class sloops that had played merry hell on the Lannisters' trading fleet during the war. Her farseer over her eyes, she inspected the make up of the thirty-strong fleet and nodded.

"Lord Stormbear," she asked her second-in-command, her sempitern shadow since she took over as Captain of the _Old Bear_. "What do you make of the fleet disposition?"

"Hmm... They seem to be in good order, my Lady. Though, the _Auroch_ 's captain has overtaken _Arrow_ , _Cannonball_ , _Razor_ and _Bolt_. If she is not careful, she might hinder the sloops' maneuvres."

"She has?" she asked, and directed her gaze toward the aforementioned ships, on the port side of her ship. Yes, there it was – she had missed it at first glance, but now that Lord Stormbear had pointed it out, she could see it clear as the day. "I suppose we ought to warn Lady Flint not to be so eager to fight the Ironborn, there will be more than enough for everyone. Send a raven to her – I would rather not to see our plan of battle sunk because someone was eager for some fried squid."

"I shall see to it, Lady Captain," Lord Stormbear replied, walking off to see the maester in charge of the Old Bear's ravens. Of course, their use during battle was fairly limited – that was what battleflags were for – but in this kind of circumstances, a raven might be better, as it would send the message without calling undue attention. She wished she could have a radio, but their number was so far limited, and they would probably require space that few ships, even those of new construction, did not have.

She directed her gaze ahead, to prow, and gazed upon the horizon. They did not know where the Ironborn ships would be, exactly – this was the best approximation she had been given. But it should be enough to catch the Ironborn and put an end to their predations.

"This time... this time the greenlanders will die! We will pay the iron price!" the _Kraken's Kiss_ 's captain shouted, and the crew cheered his words as they prepared for their assault on Lannisport. Not for burning their ships, but to reave like good Ironborn. To take plunder, thralls, salt-wives and ships to Pyke, and be greeted like the Ironborn they were.

Save for his first mate.

"I noted doubt in your words, Cap'n. What's the problem?" he asked when they were alone. The captain growled.

"It's that... damned traitor, the Boomsquid. We all thought that we would be reclaiming our independence, what with the Greenlanders being in the middle of their war. We thought the North would be an easy prey. But instead of doing as someone with iron and salt in his veins, the Boomsquid became a greenlander and helped them against us. He gave them thunderers and cannons, gave them new ships, gave them the means to stop us from taking what is ours. Then he went and captured our King, his own father, and his sister. And then he had his father killed. I know the Greyjoy girl said he killed himself, but there is no way our King would kill himself. And thank the Drowned God we chose the Crow's Eye for a King! We would have had to stop reaving if she took over, no matter what King Balon intended!"

"Maybe..." the first mate said, before cutting off as he was glared at by the captain.

"You've seen what she did when she lost. She went and left for the mainland again, probably to warn them, the traitorous bitch. But I doubt she'll be able to warn them of our King's plans."

Euron had won most of the Kingsmoot to his side when he claimed that he would make the Dragon Queen at the east marry him, and Westeros would fall to him when he controlled her dragons with the horn he said he had found in the ruins of Valyria. Nothing would be able to stand up to three dragons, not even the traitorous son of their former King and his coward's weapons.

"I don't much trust the Crow's Eye's word, Cap'n. And I think you don't, either."

The captain glowered and turned to the prow.

"Matters not. He's King now. And he orders that we reave. So we do. And we should be glad for this fog – the greenlanders won't see us coming."

"Aye," the first mate replied, while the men prepared their weapons, hooks and ropes for the assault of Lannisport. The fog was not important, for many of them had gone through this place several times already: some of them had even been there during the previous, glorious attack that had left the city burning. There was no way this could end differently.

But then, something strange happened: a bell started to sound out.

"What the fuck?" one of the veterans muttered, as the group stopped moving.

"Is there a problem, you landlubbers?" the captain screamed.

"It's just... that bell was closer than Lannisport's should be – and that one's a biggun, would have sounded a lot different."

"Who gives a damn?"

Just then, amid the fog, a silhouette started to show. A form that should not exist, should not be here. But, nonetheless, it was there. One that a few of them had survived by pure luck, and which none of them felt glad to see.

"Fuck," the first mate muttered, and the captain felt inclined to agree with him.

 _A fucking Northern ship..._

"Chainshot for our cannons, Lord Stormbear," Lyanna Mormont said, observing the soon-to-be battlefield. "Destroy their masts. Those of our ships that can be boarded by the Greyjoys, remain away from them. Have the riflemen prepare for ship to ship combat. Any of them that surrenders or that has lost enough people, board with care and arrest the surviving sailors. If the ship is still sea-worthy, bring food and water to the rowers and tell them they will be freed when they reach the closest port; othewise, get everyone to one of our ships and sink the Ironborn's. Lord Tyrion and Ser Kevan Lannister will probably be interested in buying the ships we capture. "

"Aye, aye, Captain," her companion said. The flags would be useless in this fog, but that did not matter: powerful lights could be used for the same task, lights that penetrated through the morning mist that always appeared over the sea in front of Lannisport. As the sun rose, it would dissipate, thus allowing them to communicate better.

 _Not that we are likely to need it,_ she thought, while she calmly remained at the prow of the _Old Bear_ , dispassionately gazing through her farseer at the forms she knew were the Ironborn, her family's greatest enemies for centuries.

It seemed that everything they had taught them in these years had yet to establish itself in their minds.

Today, they would receive a far worse lesson.

The deck of the _Kraken's Kiss_ was chaos, as men struggled to consider what to do now. They were brave men, all down to their wet toes, but the mere sight of the leviathan in front of them was enough to make the most ferocious Ironborn wet their pants and call to their mothers.

"SHUT YOUR TRAPS, YOU CUNTS! AND PREPARE FOR BATTLE!" the captain shouted, pushing his crew around to put them in position, to ready their weapons.

Not that any of them believed they had a chance at using them. Already, the Northern ships' cannons were thundering, sending their deadly projectiles against them. All of a sudden, three Ironborn ships lost their main mast, and seven more had their sails destroyed by what, to a sharp-eyed sailor, appeared to be two small iron balls tied together with a chain.

Another thunder, and soon after the _Kraken's Kiss_ violently shook as they were hit. Five of its men were hit by the chain-and-balls and died almost instantly when the balls shattered their bodies or the chain literally broke then in twain. Their bodies had, however, cushioned the attack so, when it hit the mast, it 'only' caused great damage to it, instead of utterly shattering it and leaving the ship without its main mean of propulsion.

Not that knowing _that_ did any wonders for their dropping morale.

As is, the fact that their fellow Ironborn were being destroyed left and right, and that none of the Northern ships were close enough for even the best Ironborn archers – of which there are few, of course – to reach with their bows, was soul-crushing to say the least.

Another cannon thundered, and at least half the crew winced when they saw the _Hardhand_ losing its mast, along with several crewmen, who screamed bloody murder when they were crushed by the large wooden post.

But the worst was yet to come.

"T-That's..." one of them stuttered, pointing at the large ship that had been the one closest to them, and now it was close enough that they could see what it was.

"An _iron_ ship?" the captain asked, stunned. They had _heard_ of them, of course, but they had thought it was just rumors made up by the greenlanders. A ship of iron should only belong to men of iron!

Only, now there was proof, right in front of them, that greenlanders did indeed have such ships.

The shock was too much for several of them, who dropped to the ground in foetal positions and trembled, their minds snapped by the situation.

Not that he could not blame them, for he himself suddenly longed for the easier time in which his mother took care of him when he was but five namedays old.

And then, one of the few men that was still standing dropped to the deck, his mouth screaming itself hoars and his shoulder sprouting blood as smaller thunders began coming from the iron ship's own deck.

 _Thunderers... they have people using thunderers from atop that ship..._

"Drat, I missed," Julia Mackay grumbled. "I hit the man next to that ship's captain. And he's going to bleed out if someone does not stop it."

"It is the first time you shoot from ship to ship in these circumstances, Miss Mackay," Lyanna Mormont told her. "You only missed at three feet from a distance of... three hundred feet. Much better than most."

"Still not perfect," Julia said, loading another bullet into her special-issue Whistler.

"No need to shoot again, they are striking their banners," Lord Stormbear said. "It appears that they are quite stunned... and a few of them are lying on the deck while they suck their thumb."

Much laughter was had on the _Old Bear_ 's main deck at the image, and Lyanna Mormont allowed herself a smile before turning back to her men, who immediately sobered.

"The battle is not ended yet. Signal the _Deepwood Motte_ to get to that ship and take their survivors. We shall continue our hunt."

Sailors saluted and scrambled to follow her orders, while she continued to observe the battle.

Or, rather, the curb-stomp battle.

She would have to ask Lord Greyjoy what a _curb_ was, and why stomping on it was supposed to be so important...

* * *

 **XCV: Iron, Silver and Gold, Part 4**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, Westeros_  
 **  
Petyr**

The clopping of hooves and the cheering of the crowds echoing in his ears, Petyr Baelish smiled as the familiar aroma of King's Landing filled his senses. After so long in the high, clear mountain air of the Vale, the humid, pungent scents of perfume and feces that so defined the capital was an assault on his nose, but he endured, as it was also the smell of power. King's Landing was the center of the Realm, for centuries the pivot point about which the continent of Westeros had revolved. Here were many of his most profitable businesses, here were his most influential contacts, here were the greatest opportunities.

Robb Stark may blather about forming a new 'Commonwealth', of changing the way Westeros is ruled, but in the long run, the players may change but the game remains. This is a game to which I know the rules, a dance to which I know all the steps. This so-called 'king' is but a Northern barbarian like his father ... like his uncle. Easy to manipulate, easy to rile, easy to guide.

To his side rode Lord Royce, resplendent in his archaic, rune-carved armour. Behind them followed two dozen knights of the Vale, two dozen more squires, and almost a hundred spear men on foot, a fitting entourage for the Lord Protector of the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale. Baelish had considered having a set of plate fasioned for himself, but had almost instantly rejected the idea: he was not a warrior, and would only appear foolish were he to emulate the manner of a knight. Instead, he wore his finest robes, tasteful and expensive jewelry, his hair and goatee trimmed to perfection. His mount was from one of the finest of the Vale's prized bloodlines, exquisitely trained and exceedingly calm - a great benefit, as he was hardly the most gifted horseman. He was, in every way, the very ideal of a powerful lord come to meet with his peer: a Regent for a king meeting with that king's cousin.

And before long, while I discuss the details of bringing the Vale into this Commonwealth with Stark's advisors - the boy will hardly be interested in the minutia of treaty-making - I will of course work closely with Cat ... my Cat. In time, I will bring her around, remind her of what we shared as children, and she will forget the sullen, dim-witted brute she was forced to marry.

Once Mya is declared the legitimate heir to King Robert, and I am named her guardian as I am young king Robert ... oh, the irony is delicious. I will encourage Cat to convince Robb to name Mya as Lady Paramount of the Stormland, and I will become ruler in all but name to two kingdoms ... more, once Cat agrees to marry me. And once Robb realises that he is as ill-suited to rule the Seven Kingdoms as Robert Baratheon was, he will realise he needs a Hand to rule in his stead ... and who better than his new good-father?

True, Greyjoy is an annoyance, but easily dealt with - after all, he plays with explosive powder and wildfire every day, and accidents do happen.

His mind was focused on the future, and so he barely noticed when the robed figure stepped out of the crowd in front of his horse. By the time he noticed the seven-pointed star carved into the bald man's forehead, he had already pulled the thunderarm from the sleeve of his robe and leveled it at Petyr.

"Die, whoremonger!" he cried shrilly, and he vanished in a cloud of smoke and fire as a ten-pound sledgehammer struck Petyr in the center of the chest, knocking him backwards off his horse and sending him crashing against the cobblestones of the street.


	45. Final Chapter: And so it begins

**Omake: The White Winds are blowing**  
 _  
I'm getting too old for this shit_.

Brynden 'The Blackfish' Tully didn't sigh in relief when he sat down only because the dignity of his House demanded he show not the slightest sign of weakness in front of the assembled nobility of Westeros ... no matter how comfortable the padded chair was.

He _was_ getting old though, sad to say.

Back in his prime, he could drink _twice_ as much as he had last night, shake it and off charge into battle with the best of them the next morn! With that said; he was proud to note he could _still_ hold his own where and when it counted. He couldn't quite remember _whose_ idea it had been to challenge those disrespectful kids (who had boasted that the 'old men' couldn't hold their drink anymore) last night, but he _did_ remember he as well as Lords Umber and Karstark had remained standing, shoulder to shoulder, badly shouting drinking songs with several hundred of their bannermen in a crowded tavern in the 'bad' part of King's Landing while Edmure, the ladies Manderly, Torrhen Karstark and a couple of Freys (Seven knows which ones, but was there _really_ a difference?) had to be dragged back to their rooms after utterly failing to keep up.

The Red Keep had been half destroyed by the predictably destructive combination of Cersei Lannisters spite and Theon Greyjoys 'improvisation'. And the still intact and safe sections, such as the Throne room, were now filled with smallfolk willing to stand in line most of the day just for the chance to get their picture taking sitting on that bloody uncomfortable monstrosity called the Iron Throne. Accordingly, the high level Government work of the city and Robb Stark's headquarters had shifted to a large manor near the top of Visenya's Hill, just up from the Street of Steel. It was formerly the joint property of a number of Stormlands houses - although after the Baratheons took power in King's Landing it had fallen into disuse. Re-purposed, this grand ballroom was now converted into a makeshift council chamber of sorts (thank the Seven, deep enough in the large building that the hammering of the Blacksmiths down the road had been reduced to a faint tinkling sound that didn't destroy his somewhat delicate head). A large round table had been placed in the middle, with seats for a good thirty people around it. Along the walls of the room were hundreds of other seats where lesser banner men, Maesters, advisers and family who had been able to secure a place at this most prestigious of meetings attended at their Lord's command. Some page had even dug out from some cupboard the banners of all the Great Houses of Westeros, shaken them out and hung them from the ceiling, lending an official air to the room.

This was the first Council of the North. It was quite overdue, having been planned to take place for some time, but delayed for this reason or another until finally it could be delayed no more. Two thirds of the seats around the table were thus filled by a mixture of Northern and Riverlands Lords who were mixed together, the distinction of their different regions all but lost these days under the King of the North and Trident. For this first conference, the King had also invited other realms to send representatives and they had answered without hesitation.  
First to his far left was a contingent from Dorne, led by Doran Martell himself in a rare appearance outside of Sunspear. His daughter Arianne sat beside him at his left and Oberyn to his right with his Paramour Ellaria, both looking equally beautiful, exotic and deadly. Behind the Martells sat several dozen men and women from Dorne, a mixture of Bannermen from Houses Yronwood and Manwoody mostly. But sitting in the front row of this contingent -directly behind their Father with the subtlety of an artillery barrage- were three older members of the infamous Sand Snakes. In spite of the formality of the occasion (or perhaps _because_ of it) they had come dressed in matching combinations of tight fitting leathers and silken cloth that left very little to the imagination. Their choice of clothes raising a few eyebrows (among other things).

The trio of young women were garnering a great deal of attention in the room; both openly appraising looks from younger men and appalled looks from some of the more stuck up Southern nobility who seemed astonished that Oberyn would bring his bastards with him like this.

Clearly, said people had _not_ spent much time around him before today.

In either case, the trio seemed to _revel_ in the attention they were getting and Brynden reminded himself to have a quiet word with Edmure after noting the looks he was exchanging with Obara Sand. His Nephew had done a lot of growing up in this war - even gained a measure of deserved fame as Robb Stark's artillery commander in chief … but _she_ was not someone his nephew was in any manner equipped to deal with.

Next to the Martel delegation were the representatives of the Vale of Arryn, the smallest group of those attending. Only two men sat at the table and barely a dozen filled seats behind them - seemingly happy to _not_ be on the table given the cool looks their main representatives were getting.

Happily, Littlefinger was not and would never be among them. With Littlefinger dead (he'd checked to make sure - and _barely_ resisted the urge to piss on his bones after hearing quietly from the King and the Greyjoy about just what he was suspected of doing over the years) Lords Yohn Royce and Horton Redfoot had stepped up to represent the lady of the Erie.

Something that left them in a bit of a personal quandary.

He knew both men well from his years of service in the Vale and knew that they _had_ been seething under the neutrality demanded by his increasingly ... unstable niece. But here and now with Baelish dead, they were in the position of being honor bound to support and press her positions as her sworn Bannermen. Royce at least had, eventually, been able to get away with almost tokenism acts of defiance such as sending the Bastard Mya Stone and a few 'volunteers' to fight the Lannisters - her status as both a Bastard and child of Robert justifying this act without censure. But even _that_ was being viewed by many of the Lord's in the Army of the Trident as little more than a play to push her claim for Storms End.  
And Redfoot hadn't even been able to get away with even _that_ much.

It truly didn't help that the Westeros Despoiler, read by a surprisingly large number of the senior nobility in the Vale, had all but condemned Lysa to her Bannermen. Articles had pointedly noted the damning silence from the Vale. That even as the North and Riverlands grappled with the Lannisters who had slain Robert and Eddard -Jon Arryn's sons in all but name!- the vaunted chivalry of the Vale was proving to be worthless as they turned their backs on family and honor. Even Dorne - bloody Dorne!- had sent their armies to fight alongside and the Reach had _married_ into the alliance … yet they remained _silent._

Add to that more than a few hints about the intentions of the former Lord Baelish regarding the Widow Arryn that had seemed almost prophetic after he had simply waltzed into the Eyrie like he owned the place to become her closest adviser...

The words of the Despoiler had struck deeper than any blade ever could, into the heart of the cradle of Andal nobility. And now, with her beloved Littlefinger dead (and loathe the man as he did only a fool would not respect his political skill) he feared for her future. She had pushed her Bannermen to the absolute limit, their love for the memory of her late husband had been more responsible for their loyalty than their oaths to his widow. And when she had almost gleefully (so he had heard from some friends still back in the Vale) jumped over that memory to embrace and marry Petyr Baelish on his arrival from King's Landing-

With some difficulty, Brynden pushed his thoughts away from the Vale to focus on the _here_ and _now._

The next group at the table was not the smallest delegation in size - but it _was_ led by a delegate of the smallest size. Tyrion Lannister and Doran were only leaders of their realms present apart from the King - although that had more to do with the short notice of this meeting than any disrespect from the other realms. The dwarf had run around the Crownlands a few times to see to 'things', but otherwise seemed to be entirely content to let his Uncle rule in Casterly Rock as his regent while he saw to 'big picture' issues in King's Landing, an arrangement he suspected was simply because he was enjoying himself too much in the center of the whirlwind of politics and intrigue.

And the wine. _Always_ the wine.

The 'Half Man' as he was now called could be found at night seated in taverns filled with Northern nobles without anyone even batting an eyelid. Which might not sound like much, but given that said Lords would stick a blade in his sisters or Nephews throat _without blinking_ (roaring in triumph perhaps, but not blinking) it was quite remarkable. The Despoiler had widely spread talk of his heroism at the Steel Wedding and, most recently, credited him with being a key factor in the success of the mission that had recovered Arya Stark. Add to that the equally widely published heroism of Kevan Lannister's son; a prisoner of the North, who had died saving the life of one of the Karstarks boys (with Karstark himself swearing publicly in print that The North Remembers such things) … and it was clear that there was an effort underway to start to pull back on the North's bloodlust around the Lannisters and focus it exclusively on Tywin, Cersei and Joffrey as the cause of all this destruction.

Although such efforts seemed unnecessary in the aftermath of the Battle of the Crossroads

The Blackfish had seen the aftermath of many a Battlefield, but what was left of the Incest King's host on that day had taken even him aback. _Twenty thousand men_ ; most Unsullied to be sure but with plenty of Westerland and Stormland soldiers and Knights mixed in, had been butchered by barely four _hundred_ of the North's best soldiers - or more honestly, by the massed batteries of artillery and Bolters they had brought with them on river monitors; unleashing such a concentration of firepower that even Edmure had been slightly sickened to watch unleashed, slaughtering the Lannisters trapped in the close confines of the village before the shattered remains were caught in a pincer by the 'jaws of the wolf' closing in on them.  
 _  
Literally_ in the case of that crazy nephew of his riding his bloody Dire Wolf through the enemy ranks!

It had been the single most destructive battle for an army in Westeros history. Even the field of Fire, that legendary battle with all three of Aegon Targaryen's Dragons unleashed during Aegon's conquest … not even _that_ had killed so many people!

Even the most bloodthirsty soldiers among the Army of the Trident looking to avenge Eddard Stark had been struck silent upon seeing the aftermath of what happened when the Army of the North 'stopped playing at war and started practicing it' - as said by Eddard Shorthand in his special commentary on the battle. A grassy field had been turned into a mud churned hell _covered_ in corpses, dead horses and war beasts.

The lesson had been driven home to the Northern levies when they had been put to work felling entire acres of forest and sorting bodies, starting the grim work of building giant funeral pyres for the Unsullied and sorting out the mess of the Westerosi to see if any of them could have their bones returned to their families. All as entire teams of Septons mournfully prayed over the dead.

The Army of the Tridents loyalty or commitment wasn't in question mind you. Not even a bit. Brynden could see that their _reverence_ for their King now verged on _worship_ after word had gotten around of his actions. And given the sometimes heated arguments in the camps around the city of exactly how Joffrey would be executed, they were certinally in no way looking to show mercy to the _leaders_ of their enemies. But the icy rage towards the Westerlands had thawed to be more pity than hate - at least towards the "Poor Bloody Levies". And even some understanding that there _were_ 'good' Westerlanders who didn't deserve to die for the crimes of Joffrey and Cersei.

Case in point; sitting next to the new Lord of Casterly Rock was an older but still striking enough woman, one Lady Alysanne Lefford from the Golden Tooth. It was all but an open secret that the Golden Tooth was to be annexed formally into the Riverlands - it had always been an ideal point for the Lannisters to launch attacks into the Riverlands and now it was to be part of the wergild the Lannisters were willing to pay to end the war on good terms. To that end and with her husband some time dead, it seemed the Lady Lefford had her eyes set on a dynastic match, to marry herself into the Riverlands nobility directly. And thus, she had come to King's Landing to in a matter of fact way, find herself a husband and had been moving through the Riverlands camps around the city like a lioness on the prowl.

He personally pitied whoever was granted the 'honor' of that position; the Boomsquid had made it clear that she had balls the size of cannon shells and if she set her sights on someone, the odds of them escaping were slim to none. Taking the warning seriously, he had been careful to keep his distance - he had had enough of that marriage shit from his Brother.

Still what problems the Westerlands had going forward they were as nothing compared to the issues the Stormlands had. Brynden shifted his gaze further along to look at that part of the table … or, more precisely, their _parts_ of the table. He could see at least four different factions sitting there, all looking rather unhappy to be sitting next to each other - and their delegations behind them were even more pointed in their sulking and glaring. Ser Davos Seaworth, the former advisor to Stannis Baratheon and now nominal regent of the Lady Shireen Baratheon was seemingly the 'official' leader of the region, apparently having Robb Stark's tacit support but looked mighty uncomfortable to be sitting in this room, given the cold stares some gave the former chief advisor to 'The Kinslayer' as Stannis was being called now. Next to him was Mya Stone, Roberts grim looking Bastard who was clearly still trying to press her own claim for Storm's End along with one or two other Lord's he didn't know representing other local factions including apparently _another_ of Roberts bastards. In normal times, the blood claim of the two bastards would be as nothing next to that of the Trueborn daughter of Stannis … but then these were hardly normal times.

Varys had already brought word and warnings that chaos seemed on the verge of breaking out across the Stormlands. Comparatively untouched by this war as it was, a huge swathe had been cut through its Knights, Lords and levies. First the Lannisters at King's Landing had torn the massed armies of Stannis to pieces during his attempt to take the city. Then, after Stannis had found himself blockaded by the North's Royal Navy on Dragonstone, many of the surviving families had pledged their loyalty back to Joffrey. Most of _those_ families best had charged into Edmure's cannons at the Crossroads and been obliterated, leaving far too many houses without their leaders and heirs little more than children - if they had them at all!

In short, there was a absence of power and authority. And if in such an absence even _bastards_ could start to gather attention and support...

Already there were whispers that the Reach and Dorne were contemplating the possibility of taking border fiefs. Brynden didn't think even Mace Tyrell would try anything so stupid as an invasion and risking the wrath of the King in the North (or worse, his mother and daughter). More likely they would start to put quiet pressure on border houses with bribes or threats under the table, to get them to bend the knee to Sunspear and Highgarden - 'of their own choice'. Which might not even be so hard. Banditry was starting to pick up as deserters, sellswords looking to 'recover their pay' and even desperate refugees all took matters into their own hands. So too had houses that still had manpower chosen to take the unique chance to settle old grudges with Houses far more wounded in the war. Even the most petty things like boundary disputes between Lords had rumors swirling of small skirmishes already starting. Trade and commerce already disrupted by the war were starting to grind to a halt and it wouldn't be terribly long before _something_ started that would cascade into a full scale brawl.

It seemed only a strong firm response from this council could still the stormy waters of those lands before things became impossible to control or contain. Yet he knew Robb was loathe to get involved. It had been long a saying that the Starks didn't belong in the South - and given the revelations from the far North, that went _double_ now!  
But … if not him, then _who?_

It was darkly amusing to him in its own way. Joffrey, Renly, Stannis - perhaps even Littlefinger, had all desperately desired the Throne and been denied it violently. And here, his nephew was doing everything he possibly could to stay _away_ from becoming the King of the Seven Kingdoms … except that said Seven Kingdoms (or at least most of them) were firmly trying to _push_ him into the position _regardless_ of what he wanted.

Past the Stormlands delegations came the second largest group after the North and Riverlands; the group from Highgarden. Headed by Loras Tyrell himself, flanked in turn by the imposing figures of Randyll Tarly and Paxter Redwyne the General and Admiral of the hosts of the Reach respectively. The Florents very noticeable by their absence in the 'front row' had been 'exiled' to sit with lesser houses and representatives behind. A slap in the face and a sign of how tenuous their position had become in The Reach. They had backed Renly along with the Tyrells - but had then switched to Stannis while the rest of the Reach had been called back to align with the North (his wife _was_ a Florent to be fair). The two Houses had not come to blows over the matter, but the Tyrells were clearly making an example out of their rivals for control of the Reach and putting them into their place.

He doubted very much that Loras Tyrell had thought of that; more likely than not his sister had arranged it. He liked his nephew's wife … but he didn't forget for a second that she had learned under her Grandmother's tutelage. Well-hidden as they may be, this Northern rose had thorns and _remembered_ as readily as a Northern woman that the Florents had sided with the man who had murdered her first husband.

Some days he supposed it was _good_ to be Queen.

Still, just as visible as who _was_ at the table (that was to be honest, really a Grand Council) was who _wasn't_ at the table. The Iron Islands had not been invited - they seemed too busy encouraging Westeros to come up with a _permanent_ solution to their culture as they expanded their reeving against the Westerlands and Reach. There were also no representatives from Essos in the room. He knew the Iron Bank and the Sea Lord had wanted their representatives to attend, but they had been politely -but firmly- turned away from this morning with the word that this was for Westerosi only.

Although in truth the Sea Lords embassy had been turned away with a not-terribly subtle comment about the _curiously familiar_ technology in the Braavosi sail ship in the harbor. And the Iron Banks representatives … well, he could care less about them fretting and worrying about if the Commonwealth would even acknowledge the debt of the Iron Throne. Let them fucking stew for a while longer...

With a loud thump, the main door into the ballroom opened and he and the rest of the Lords stood. Unheralded and without any fanfare, the King in the North and Trident marched into the room dressed in a typically dour Stark greycloak and leathers - with just a splash of color in a simple Gold band of a crown (probably that his Wife and Mother had insisted he wear). Said Wife was marching with him step for step holding his hand, dressed in an impeccably chosen gown that somehow enhanced her regality while embracing the more astute fashions of the North, done in greens and greys. Behind them came Cat and, of course, the Boomsquid, the two of them leading a cluster of advisors ... including, to his annoyance, the fucking eunuch.  
He trusted the man-who-was-no-man about as far as he could throw him. His nephew assured him they had plans to bring his network under the control of others and tightly constrain him … but he scoffed at the notion that anyone could 'trust' Varys or even know what his true motives were.

 _You'd had better luck training a snake to dance than getting the Spiders loyalty_ he thought with a silent snort. _Should have just killed him and been done with it_...

"Please, sit" Robb gestured and the assembled masses returned to their seats as Captain Tarth posted her men and moved up to stand grimly behind the two monarchs chairs.

Seven Hells, did that woman _ever_ smile?

Robb in a gallant fashion pulled the chair out for his Queen as the various people sat down. Only Cat and the Greyjoy had seats for them at the table, the rest of his party joining the aides and others directly behind the King.

He smiled at Cat and received a tired one back as she sat down next to him. His other niece had one daughter back now which should have been cause for celebration (and to be fair, at first he had thought they were going to need one of the Greyjoy's toys to pry her arms from around Arya after she found her waiting with her Brothers at the docks). But another of her daughters had vanished and been taken even further away, in the hands of a desperate, spiteful woman with little to lose. Brandon Stark, despite all the best efforts of Winterfell and the remaining Bannermen in the North, was _still_ missing without a trace. And despite the fury the North had unleashed in his name … her husband was _still_ dead and would never come back to her.

But for all that, he was proud to see her set herself, straighten up and in moments once again become every inch the wife of the late Ned Stark as her Son started to speak.

"My Lords, my Ladies, thank you for coming" Robb opened the proceedings. "A little over a year ago, I called the Banners to Winterfell, when word arrived by Raven that my Father..." he paused for a second as his voice wavered, his wife reaching over to take his hand in hers and offer a supporting smile he seemed to draw strength from.

Seriously, who wouldn't? The woman was bloody _gorgeous._

"That my Father" he continued in a strong voice after squeezing his wife's hand, "had been arrested on charges of treason. _All_ of us knew it was a lie, that my Father would never have turned against a man who was his brother by all but blood" he said and gained an immediate response as various Lords spat and cursed the name of Joffrey in support of his statement, stopping only when Robb held up a hand. "With that news came a demand of submission, left unsaid that my Father and Sisters would pay the price if I did not bend the knee. On that day it became clear that like the Mad King before him, 'King' " - and the Blackfish allowed him to be impressed at the sheer level of _contempt_ his nephew had put into that word - "Joffrey cared not for the law or our rights. Only for total, complete and absolute submission to his whims". He paused for a moment before looking him, his face set. "My Grandfather was known to say to his children that they should _never_ start any fights … but if they ever did get into a one, _to win_. My Lords and Ladies; Joffrey started this fucking war … _we have finished it"._

This time the approval from the room was enthusiastic. Roars and cheers thundered in the room (and he did wince slightly at the noise level even as he and others pounded their fists on the table). In no time at all chants of "The King in the North and Trident!' were ripping through the room. Robb let them go on for a short time, before holding up both his hands and letting them fall off.

"With the war over, I had hoped today to talk of _peace_. To sit down with good will and forge a new future for Westeros free of the shackles of the Iron Throne. I still hope this, but..." he paused for a moment, seemingly setting himself, before pushing on. "But I must inform you now of events in the North. And while I hope, I _truly_ hope, for today to be the start of a new era, _everything_ from this point my Lords and Ladies, must be viewed through the truths of this news and what it means for all of us".

In that moment, Brynden was struck by just how much Robb looked like his Father as he looked around the room with a grim but determined expression. And it struck him there that like Rickard Stark, Eddard had been robbed of living to see his Son become a man any father would be fiercely proud of.

"What we discuss from this point forward does not go outside your most trusted Bannermen" the Queen added as her Husband gathered himself, her gaze calm - yet with an edge in it no less sharp then Robs. "We cannot afford to have news of this get out before we're ready, because a panic -especially among the smallfolk- is the last thing we need and could doom us all".  
 _Now_ the uneasy sort of mood in the room started to shift towards one of genuine alarm. Even the hungover kids looked alert and attentive now. When the King and Queen in the North with more power than any Westerosi monarchs ever had started talking about news so dire that it might cause a panic?

"The words of my House" Robb started after a moment "as I'm sure you all know, are 'Winter is Coming'. Legend has it they were chosen by Brandon the Builder, the first Stark, to remind us that even the longest summer _always_ gives way to Winter and to be prepared".

Now, Rob's hands slowly tightened into fists.

"It would seem that the words once held meaning far beyond that … but much of what was once known to the First Men has been lost to us. Over thousands of years history has become legend … and legend has become myth. Thus, I would ask you to hearken to the words of Maester Luwin, who I have put in charge of consolidating all our intelligence and information on this situation. We will give you all hard copies of your own, but for now I simply ask you to listen".

Robb now sat as his Maester, the old but highly respected Luwin stood and moved to stand in a small gap next to the King, as his assistants started to move around the room, placing in front of each person at the table a an information packet in a folder, secured with a wax seal. One with _very_ bright red letters saying "MOST SECRET" - a theatrical gesture perhaps, but hopefully one that made the point clear.

"Over the last two years, Winterfell has been receiving reports from the Night's Watch of unusual activity North of The Wall" the Maester started now that the mood had been appropriately set with _just_ the right amount of unease. "Wildlings were gathering together in larger and larger numbers. At last report before events in the South overtook us all, they were a force a hundred thousand strong and growing. Unified under a 'King Beyond the Wall' named Mance Rayder, a deserter from the Night's Watch".

"There's only ever been six or seven of these 'Kings beyond the Wall' in all of history" Greatjon Umber spoke up in a low growl that gained attention at once, his massive beaded face and sunken eyes moodily staring into the centre of the table. Unlike most of the Lords, _he_ knew what was really going on. And while he was _not happy_ about the the King and Lord Commander's decisions, he had understood and accepted them once the situation was laid out for him. "None have ever had an army near this big, let alone led so many different tribes who hate each other's guts. Following a Crow? It's almost too hard to believe".

"Loyalty in a Wildling is almost a contradiction. And while they are fierce, I doubt they are stupid" a new voice cut in and attention on the table shifted to the ever grim and calculating face of Randyll Tarly, who was staring at the far wall in a considering sort of way as he rubbed his chin in thought slowly, his hard face giving nothing away as he thought out loud. "This many factions would _never_ follow a deserter of the Watch unless he was able to offer them - _all_ of them - something they _all_ wanted more than his head. Frankly, I can see only _one_ thing that could be so valuable that they would _all_ agree to follow him to get it".

"Riches?" some Bannerman of House Manderly hazarded, earning a look of irritation from Tarley that had the other slink back into his seat trying to look small.

" _Survival_ " he corrected the other bluntly, turning to focus in on the Maester who nodded slowly.

"Your insight is keen Lord Tarly" Luwin offered him a brief bow as a ripple of whispers and low comments circled the room. "We did not see this truth at first, the reports we got from the Night's Watch were somewhat circumspect as they themselves were only slowly piecing together a larger picture. Wildling villages found entirely abandoned. Trackers finding animals moving atypically through the haunted forest - or their presence vanishing all together as if reacting to something unseen. A number of well-armed, well trained Ranger teams going missing without any evidence of _how_ or _why_. And at night, observers using advanced farseers of Theon Greyjoy's personal design saw from the Shadow Tower what could only be truly massive fires deep in the Frostfangs at night. Tracks and scattered sightings from patrols showing all Wildlings moving as one towards the source of those fires. In short, the Night's Watch found they had too many questions, too few answers and Lord Commander Mormont" and he glanced at Mage for but a moment "decided to lead a personal reconnaissance mission. A 'Great Ranging' hundreds of men strong, equipped with the finest weapons and technology the North boasted, in the hope of getting some answers".

"And I am taking it, they found much more than they bargained for?" Tyrion Lannister quipped as if this was all some amusing story in a bar.

"In a manner of speaking" Robb looked steadily at the other until his somewhat sardonic smirk vanished, before directing his gaze around the room. "Under a myrish flag after a skirmish, Lord Mormont and Mance Rayder met to talk. And in that talk and the events that followed immediately after, it became clear that the King Beyond the Wall had gotten his position by convincing the Wildlings of one simple truth. That either they all reached The Wall and managed to get safe passage beyond it … or all of them would be dead by the time Winter hit".

A new confused murmuring broke out at that before it was quickly stifled as Lord Royce stood.

"These Wildlings, if they are anything like the Mountain Tribes of the Vale are _not_ weak people Your Grace. No matter how primitive they might be. They have survived for thousands of years in the most inhospitable part of Westeros, with next to no technology or society. Why would the onset of winter terrify them so when they _live_ in one? And why would the North have any concern over them - what with the weapons you and the Nights Watch now have?"

"You are correct My Lord Royce - Winter does _not_ scare them" Robb acknowledged the other with an unblinking stare. "They are not fleeing the Winter … they are fleeing from what is coming _with_ the Winter, as the North Winds grow ever stronger".

"The North Winds …" Lord Royce asked, seemingly confused - but his response was almost lost as there was a sudden intake of breath and soft profanity from many of the Northern Lords who were now directing alarmed, disbelieving looks at their King. Then there was a scraping sound and everyone's gaze was dragged to the side as Theon Greyjoy himself slowly stood, letting the scrape of his chairs legs across the floor serve as his herald and silencing all other noise in the room as Lord Royce resumed his seat. Slowly, he traced his for once utterly serious gaze across the room before he started to speak with a chillingly soft tone.

"The words of House Stark were, I think, a warning of much more than the onset of snow" the Boomsquid noted, almost to himself. " _No-one_ puts up a wall of ice _three hundred miles wide and seven hundred feet high_ on any kind of whim - the Wildlings as a people probably came a long time _after_ The Wall was built, but we have forgotten _that_ too. We have, _I_ have, been blind and distracted. And in that blindness, a far darker thing than Joffrey Waters has silently moved back into the world, unseen and unchallenged in the darkness of the far North. Biding its time and building its strength until it was ready to start moving. I do not know _why_ they have chosen now as their time. I do not know where they have been for all these centuries, but it seems their defeat was merely a delay" he said, his gaze now lifting to slowly run around the room and seemingly drop the temperature from the horrible look of utter sincerity in his eyes as he spoke the words. Words that would be burned into many a persons mind; now and forever.

"Winter is not coming My Lords and Ladies, Winter is _here_. And we now have proof that the White Walkers, the _Others,_ have returned with it and are coming for us all".

There was a moment of perfect, utter silence and stillness as everyone took in the truth that had been laid out before them ... then took in the utterly and deadly serious expression on the usually cheerful and sardonic Boomsquids face.

 _Then_ the room exploded into noise as every person started to shout at once.

* * *

 **Typists Notes:** The author of this story, AndrewJTalon on Spacebattles has ended this story here, and it will continue as a new story.


	46. Final Chapter II: A bit more to go

**The White Winds are Blowing Pt II**

It took some time for order to be restored among the most powerful men and women in Westeros.

Margaery Tyrell spent much of that time patiently sitting and observing the reactions to the Greyjoy's announcement, feeling and listening as she had been painstakingly taught by her Grandmother. Dozens of conversations had broken out across the room, blending into noisy and somewhat rambunctious 'exchanges that were edging towards panic at the idea that monsters of legend were both real _and_ coming for them. Less so on the 'Southern' half of the room, true, but even there only a few people -Walder Frey primarily- seemed to be openly wearing expressions of disbelief. Most of The Reach at least were following the lead of her brother who was looking as serious as he could - _and slightly ridiculous, she made a mental note to talk to him about trying to look_ too _much like Tywin Lannister -_ as they seriously discussed it. Tyrion Lannister had a perfectly neutral face ... but the unconscious tapping of his knuckles in a clenched fist on the table gave away his unease clearly to her.

And the Stormlands contingents just looked downright confused as it dawned on them that this Grand Council actually wasn't about _them_.

 _Hmm._

Strike that; _one_ of their number simply looked grim … ah, yes. The Onion Knight had, after all, served Stannis. Stannis, who had heard of this threat at the same time as the North … and had used that knowledge to escape his fate.

She could not begrudge her husband's decision to let Stannis live and serve on The Wall, seizing the opportunity to end one war quickly and prepare for the next. If nothing else in the days ahead it would be a useful political tool for her to drive home how all their old wars were now a thing of the past. Stannis was a skilled leader who would no doubt be useful to the Night's Watch in the dark days ahead...

But in her heart, she _wished_ she could have extracted some measure of justice for Renly-

 _Stop that_ she heard the voice of her Grandmother in her mind - so much so she had to fight the urge to look sheepishly over her shoulder, expecting to find the old woman _here,_ glaring at her in disapproval, jabbing her cane at her as she had when she'd dared to raise an objection to the plan to marry her to Robb Stark with Renly's body still warm. _Bury the dead and_ live _girl_ _\- we all join them soon enough and they will not begrudge you making them wait!_

Feeling appropriately chided from the memory, she set aside the past to focus on the present and future, turning to face her husband as she felt his gaze upon her. And she allowed herself the luxury of a full two seconds to take in that face that she had missed for so long. His rugged, _handsome_ face, remembering how it looked when she-

She forced herself, with some difficulty, to concentrate.

There would be plenty of time for _that_ later tonight.

 _Politics_ was the order of the day now.

"Perhaps we went too far?" Robb asked her over the din, leaning in close to her so they could talk without shouting. Or be overheard for that matter.

"No" she replied firmly, keeping half an ear on the arguments raging between various Lords and an appropriately grave expression on her face for appearances sake. "We can't risk key Lords dismissing our claims because they either don't want to believe _it_ or don't believe _us_. That's why it had to be Theon; _he_ has impeccable credentials for claiming the impossible as truth and humiliating everyone who bets against him".  
Robb nodded at that and she continued confidently.

"We have time to build our alliance, but we won't get anywhere if we're forever fighting a second war against idiots who refuse to admit The Others exist until the dead are climbing over each other onto their castles battlements deep in the South".

Rob seemed to consider that as he continued to study her.

"What?" she asked, slightly nonplussed at his intense gaze.

"Have I told you how beautiful you are today, My Queen?" he finally said in a low, _deep_ voice...

Now she _did_ flush, feeling a surge as 'The Wolf' seemed to come to the forefront of her husband's bearing in the low tones of his voice...

Propriety be damned. She had a sudden desire from far too many months apart to grab him by his leathers, yank him to her and kiss him like this was his last day. To raise such a scandal that ladies from Winterfell to Sunspear would be gasping and secretly flushing scarlet when they read about the King and Queen of The North, Trident and Reach making out like desperate teenagers in front of all the Realms nobility-

"No. But I'm sure you can correct that tonight" she instead replied with an easy smile that was far more of a smirk, using a sultry tone that caused her husband's nostrils to flare before he too seemed to get a hold of himself and they pulled back and turned to face the room.

She took in the noise once more. The arguments didn't seem to be adding any new insights now and accordingly, she turned to catch the eye of Captain Tarth and made a curt hand signal.

Brienne nodded back and turned away for a moment. Margaery set herself carefully, forcing herself to not tense up and brace as -

 _ **BANG! BANG!**_

The sound of a Viper shotgun discharging its two barrels a half second apart was quite deafening thanks to the thick stone walls. The vast bulk of the rooms guests dove for the floor, more than a few screams of panic and alarm sounding, with a counterpoint _thud_ of the far door being opened rapidly by the guards outside. A quick look at the room and seeing that both she and her husband were fine, then an unseen hand gesture from Brienne and the Guards bowed briefly and closed the door again as the Queen stood.

A brittle sort of silence came into the room, broken only by the gentle pitter-patter as the rock salt that had been loaded into the Thunderarm and sprayed into the roof now irregularly rained down on the table, floor and people cowering under it as they slowly started to look up, their gaze shifting between Brienne and the still smoking shotgun she was holding and their Queen scowling down on them.

Not everyone outside the Royal Party was cowering mind. She was impressed to see Lord Bolton had barely raised an eyebrow, Lord Tarly was simply looking faintly amused and the Blackfish was still in his seat -massaging his forehead with his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

But they were very much exceptions.

"So" she said in a tone she had heard her Grandmother use many a time to scold everyone from servants to Lords Paramount. One with just the right mix of annoyance, contempt and authority - or so she hoped, as the proud Lords started to understand that the world had _not_ ended. "The finest Lords of Westeros. _This_ is how the greatest soldiers and warriors in the realm react to finding there is an equally great threat that needs to be confronted?" she observed with not _quite_ a sigh of disappointment now edging into her voice.

She couldn't help but feel slightly amused that Walder Frey was not among those getting off the floor; the red faced Lord of The Twins was now furiously glaring at his offspring and Bannermen who had all hit the ground without any of them seeming to care to try and protect their Lord.

Rob stood to join her, his gaze equally unimpressed as he looked at the group stunned into silence by the somewhat violent reminder of the power of the North.

"If we are all _quite_ finished?" he asked before continuing without waiting for an answer. " _Good._ Now, My Lords and Ladies, we have a significant information to go through regarding this threat before planning our response. Lord Greyjoy has reviewed all the reports from the Night's Watch thus far and will now give you his personal analysis of the situation. Theon?"

The other nodded as he stood, Margaery taking that as her Que to sit back down as the room almost magically calmed back down and resumed their seats. She idly recalled the saying that when Theon Greyjoy spoke, everyone from Dorne to The Wall listened ... and now she saw it for true.

Even before he had said _one_ word, the Boomsquid, the Genius had the rooms undivided attention simply by standing up.

She couldn't help but _marvel_ at that power.

Hmmm, perhaps she was _slightly_ jealous, but if it worked for her now, so much the better.

And frankly, he was _good_ at this, quite the storyteller indeed.

Despite having read the same reports as he, Margaery found herself surprised to find she was hanging on his every word. He started with Castle Black; two dead bodies found just outside The Wall had come back to a twisted form of life to attack the Lord Commander in the middle of the night. Their blue eyes and seeming indifference to being stabbed and struck in ways that would easily kill a man clearly making an impression on the room. He then took them all beyond the Wall to places none in this room had ever been, through the haunted forest and dozens of intact yet mysteriously abandoned villages. And finally, the clash of arms at the Fist of the First Men where the army of the Wildlings under Mance Rayder had attacked the ranging and been brutally repulsed leading to an uneasy standoff … broken as a massive, unnatural storm had swept in _precisely_ across the region.

The Ballroom was silent as now as Theon described how out of that mist and thunder, the dead had come. In strength.

He quickly shifted through the chaos of the clash and decision to retreat towards The Wall, relaying the intention of the Lord Commander to resettle the Wildlings (or Free Folk as they apparently called themselves) behind it. Robb broke in there at the murmurs and dark looks from many of the Northern Lords to note that while he supported the Lord Commander's decision, _he_ was to be putting in place strict conditions on this generosity he would go into later with the Northernmost houses, seemingly mollifying them as he gestured Theon to continue. The Greyjoy did so, noting that all the Lords and Ladies folders had detailed analysis from Jon Snow's reports on ways to kill Wights and threat they posed. But now, he had reached to the part of the story that had everyone seemingly suddenly shifting forward onto the edge of their seats.

Jon Snow confronting one of the ancient enemy themselves. Twice.

The first time, he had shot it with a heavy rifle bullet that did unclear damage at night - seemingly driving it off from its position observing the battle … but if nothing else, it certainly seemed to have 'pissed it off' given a week later, the Walker coming after him specifically taken a moment to pointedly look at a mark on its skin where apparently the bullet had struck it as they had squared off.

Theon dryly noted at that point that it seemed that the White Walkers were just as capable as humans of holding a grudge, earning a nervous laugh from the table, before adding that in response to its clear affront to being shot, Jon had simply told it to 'eat shit and _die'_ … and shot it twice more, sending it staggering back.  
From the more enthusiastic noises and even a few fists pounding on the table from some of the more rough and tumble Northern Lords that resulted, there was seeming general approval of that action. But the Walker had been far from finished, mobbing him with some of its dead slaves to keep him distracted while it recovered, the dead pressing Jon from multiple angles until he had made a fatal mistake of trying to cross his sword with the Other as it had suddenly reappeared - only for his sword to _block_ the Walkers magical weapon, _not_ shattering like every other weapon used against it.

"Now, the critical fact to note here is that Jon Snow was not using a normal sword" Theon explained to the intrigued looks of the room. "He had been rewarded by Lord Commander Mormont after saving his life at Castle Black with the right to hold and use his family's ancestral blade-"

" _Longclaw_ " Maege Mormont spluttered in some astonishment, flushing slightly as _everyone_ turned to face her, but raising her chin in pride as she realized her family's most valuable possession had just had a new, astonishing page written in its history. "The Valyrian steel blade of my house" she explained.

"As you say Lady Mormont" Theon inclined his head. "It would seem conclusive that whatever magic was infused into Valyrian Steel -dragonfire would be my guess, at least in part from what I've uncovered over the years- it is still both present _and_ capable of resisting the White Walkers own magic that otherwise immediately destroyed any weapon that struck it. More critically, Jon reported that it seemed genuinely _shocked_ at the outcome, pausing for a moment as if it couldn't believe that had happened before the two of them started _really_ fighting. Jon exchanged a few strikes -which he noted as powerful but off balance, saw an opening and stabbed it … at which point the White Walker exploded into shards of ice and snow that sprayed over the area".

A powerful cheer rose promptly with yet more pounding on the table (and what sounded oddly like a moan of pain from the direction of The Blackfish) as well as calls of 'Snow! Snow! Snow!' celebrating the fact that a man had proven their new enemy -and old enemy- _could_ be killed.

Margaery however sighed as she saw her Goodmother looked like she had just bitten into one of her cousins infamously sour lemon tarts. Apparently the thought of Jon Snow being acclaimed a hero and doing something no living man had ever done in slaying one of the ancient enemy did _not_ agree with her.

Frankly, Margaery thought Catelyn Stark was _dangerously_ irrational around Eddard Stark's bastard. From her careful probing of Theon and Robb about Jon Snow (naturally after marrying Robb she had needed to know if the oldest of Eddard Starks children _was_ a threat) it had become clear he was 'pack', it was actually that simple for once compared to the often chaotic scenes in The Reach around birthrights. And as a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, whatever claim he may have potentially had on Winterfell was now _gone_.

Silently, Margaery made a note in her head to talk to Robb about this. Jon Snow was clearly thriving on what would soon be the front lines of this war - was the King's Brother in a position to exert enormous influence over the Night's Watch. Indeed, Theon had noted he suspected that the current Lord Commander was quite possibly grooming him to be his replacement. She - they - could not afford _any_ disruption by the Lady Stark...

"The latest reports from Castle Black, via Winterfell, are that the Wildlings are starting to move through onto The Gift as we speak" Theon brought her attention back as he moved through several pieces of paper with the latest reports. "Luckily, most of the remaining settlements on The Gift have been abandoned thanks to Lord Stark's decision to support the Watch more directly in recent times. The exceptions to this are being evacuated by his Graces order. There should be enough space, game and materials to settle the Wildlings across the Gift, with enough room between tribes to keep friction down. However, only about twenty thousand have made it to The Wall. Which means if things have gone badly, the Army of the Dead could easily top a hundred thousand _already_ ".

That number caused a rumble of chatter to break out across the room as Theon sat down.

Theon quantifying their foe had seemingly replaced fear of the _unknown_ with fear of the _known_ for many of the people in the room. Her grandmother had always warned her that fear was the most dangerous of all weapons to try and wield. Fear could drive great things, or terrible things. It could raise an army from nothing or scatter it like seeds on the wind. Fear could build empires just as easily as it rallied others against them.  
The question now was if they would let fear _unite_ them … or divide them.

"Given the situation" Robb took back control of the room, quieting the conversations, "I am going to be reducing the North's presence in the South - immediately. Lords Karstark, Umber, Glover and Lady Mormont, your Banners will be decamping immediately, we'll discuss the logistics this afternoon so we can start them moving tomorrow at sunup" he ordered, getting four quick nods in reply as Robb turned his attention to the younger Karstark sitting next to his father. "Torrhen, I am appointing you in charge of looking after things on The Gift and keeping the situation under control. I want you to work with our people, the Night's Watch and the Wildlings as my representative. Help our … guests ... settle in but make sure they _understand_ the rules. You have my authority and trust to do what needs to be done - finding out what the Wildlings need to build shelters would be a good first start. The more time they spend trying to build homes, the less they'll think about anything outside of The Gift".

The younger Karstarks jaw dropped as the realisation of what he was being asked to do hit him, until he managed to pull it closed.

"Y … Your Grace" the other stammered, "with all respect-"

"-he feels unworthy of this honor but will, of course, _do as his King commands to the very best of his abilities_ " _Lord_ Karstark cut in, giving his son a _look._

"Uh yes - as my Lord Father says Your Grace!" the younger Karstark quickly agreed and Margaery spared him an understanding smile that had him blush slightly as Robb nodded and moved onto the next issue.

"Lord Tyrell, we need to converse about accelerating the roll out of our harvesting methods and technologies into The Reach. This winter is sure to be longer and harder than any for thousands of years and one we will have to fight a war through. We'll need to do whatever we can to shore up our food supply in what time we have left before winter hits".

"I am at your service, Goodbrother" the other said with a firm nod - and Margaery smiled at his casual reminder to the room of their Houses firm connection to the North. To the rest of Westeros _and_ the other Houses of the Reach.

 _Especially_ the other Houses of the Reach.

"We have some time to prepare. Not much - this damn war has cost us far too much already, but _some_ " Robb continued after a moment's thought. "Right now, the best we can do is deny the enemy as many resources as we can while building our own up and denying a fight with them for as long as we can".

"Why wait?" Lord Glover demanded with a scowl. "Our armies are fully in the field, fully equipped. Let's hit them _hard_ and hit them _now!_ ". There was a rumble of both agreement and disagreement at that, an argument quickly building up across the room between those who wanted to attack _now_ and those who were clearly terrified of getting into a war with the ancient enemy anytime before they _absolutely_ had to.

"My Lords" Greatjon Umber rumbled to the room before, not getting enough notice, he stood and took a deep breath. " _MY LORDS"_ he yelled, shutting everyone else up immediately. "Here's what I think about these _White Walkers_ and their army of the dead!" - and with that, he turned and almost violently spat at the floor, earning a laugh from the Northern and River Lords, a slight smile of remembrance from his King, a bark of laughter from Oberyn Martell and even a smirk trying to fight its way onto the dour face of Tyrion Lannister.

Lady Alysanne next to him however, rolled her eyes in a way that said 'Men!' and made Margaery smile behind a hastily raised hand.

"Eight thousand years ago these fuckers came during the Long Night, aye. Eight thousand years ago, _we defeated them!"_ he roared and there was a mumble of agreement from the table. "The last time, the First Men faced them and pushed them back! You know what they had to do it with?" he paused for a moment as he looked around the room. "Sticks! Two sticks and a rock for each tribe!" He paused for a fraction of a second to slam his fist down on the table and grin as he repeated one of the private jokes Theon Greyjoy had told him years ago. "And _they had to share that rock!"_

Now the laughter in the room was less nervous and more boisterous as he looked around in mock outrage, before standing back up and throwing his arms open.

"They're coming again? Then _let them come!_ This time, we have the _Wall!_ We have the _Night's Watch!_ We have the _Andals and the Rhoynar!"_ he stabbed his finger at first the Vale delegation and then the Martells, who seemed to straighten in their seats a little at their inclusion as growing noises of approval started around the room. "We have _Knights_ and we have _steel!"_ he said to more cheers. "We have _cannons_ and _thunderarms!"_ he added to louder approval, hammering his fist on the table for emphasis. "We have _Wildfire_ and _Gunpowder!"_ and now men were starting to -again- bang their fists on the table in approval causing the Blackfish to wince again. "And we have the fucking Boomsquid!" he finished causing a loud cheer to roar through the room as attention turned on the slightly surprised looking Greyjoy as Umber stabbed a finger at him, almost in accusation. "Just _look_ at him! He's probably _already thought up three new ways to kill the fuckers as efficiently as possible!"_

"Five actually - depending how you count" the Greyjoy noted dryly to cheers and more fist pounding on the table as he also stood, holding up his hands for quiet that he slowly got as Umber sat.

"Lord Umber is correct; we have far more manpower and weapons then the First Men. And Jon's report shows we can fight the dead. _But"_ he added as people started to pound on the table. "But, there _is_ something we are all discounting". He paused to take a breath with a brief glance at both she and Robb, the later giving him a tiny nod to proceed. " _Magic_ ".

"My Lord Greyjoy I must say I am surprised to hear _you_ of all people say that" a voice objected from the other side of the room almost at once and attention turned to an elderly Maester next to Leyton Hightower - who looked like he would rather be sitting _anywhere_ else as people turned disbelieving expressions on the man. "'Magic' is a dead force in this world" he continued in a tone that _almost_ sounded like it was actually daring to lecture Theon Greyjoy as he stood up. "It is the stuff of legends and childish superstition-"

"Just like the White Walkers?" Tyrion Lannister snorted derisively. "Why don't you go explain it to them? Who knows they might vanish in a puff of logic if you can prove they don't exist to their faces!"

There was a _distinct_ snicker and poorly hidden grins around the room at the jab from the Lannister - and a look from Theon to Tyrion best described as 'hilarious, but unhelpful' before he turned his gaze back on the huffy looking Maester.

"I would agree with you that magic _was_ a dead force in Westeros - or at least the art or ability to use it was, with a few limited exceptions" Greyjoy conceded easily. "But just because _we_ can't wield it doesn't mean others _-_ and _the_ Others - _can't_ Maester..."

"Rolf. _Maester_ Rolf" he supplied - sounding just a tad taken aback that he wasn't immediately recognized. "The _authorized_ representative of the Citadel in the … _absence_ … of a Grand Maester" he finished, breaking his gaze with Theon to shoot a _look_ at Tyrion Lannister. Who seemed entirely unapologetic over the implied complaint over Grand Maester Pycelle being put to work shoveling shit out of the stables at Castley Rock.

Margaery also noticed the way more than a few of the _other_ Maesters around the room rolled their eyes or exchanged glances with each other over his pronouncement and she made a _second_ note to talk to Lord Hightower soon. She had always gotten on well with him and no Lord knew more about the interior politics of the citadel than he. A power struggle inside the Citadel _could_ be a useful thing, if harnessed correctly to shake up that institution to get it ready for the war to come...

"Maester Rolf. The White Walkers are magical creatures, this is simply a statement of fact based on observation. We've seen other events too; Renly Baratheon's death by a creature of shadow and darkness being the most high profile-"

"Give me enough Bolters Boomsquid - and we'll _see_ how long this army of the dead last, magic or no magic!" Lord Karstark didn't _quite_ spit, to a murmur of approval in the room.

"And if the Others can manipulate the weather like at the Fist of the First Men? Say they drop a storm on our army, cut visibility down to ten or twenty meters? Turn on a gale force wind or snow storm to bury our army? My Lords, the _only_ thing we know that can kill an Other is Valyrian Steel - a metal forged with ancient magic - and that's untenable to win a war against them given how few we have. We _don't_ have the Children of the Forest this time around to provide us their magic. Now" he added, "perhaps we won't need it. Perhaps we _will_ blow them all to hell and wipe them out with cannon and sword and fire … but my Lords, we've all _just_ seen clearly what happens in a war where one side has an overwhelming advantage in technology". He paused now to stare down the room, rapping his knuckles on the table for emphasis. " I do _not_ want to see what happens to humanity if we find ourselves with no counter for _magic_ ".

The room remained silent as he sat down again. No-one seemed entirely _eager_ to find out what one side having an overwhelming advantage in _magic_ might look like on the battlefield...

"If I may speak, your Grace?" a gruff voice finally asked diffidently. Robb gestured his agreement and The Onion Knight stood, ignoring the looks from Mya Stone and the other Stormlander factions around him. "While in service of His Grace Stannis Baratheon I spent much time, not by choice mind, around the Red Woman. The Priestess of R'hllor Melisandre..."

 _The woman who made that thing that killed Renly_ Margaery couldn't help but couldn't help but think as she stiffened, causing Robb to glance at her in concern for a second before she controlled herself. Chiding herself for so openly losing control, she smiled at him and turned back, shooting a look at her brother, who in turn looked ready to leap out of his chair. A glare reinforced with a hand gesture caused him finally settle back into his seat and control himself before she turned to face the man.

"To clarify Ser Davos" she spoke up, hoping her bearing remained calm and in control. "This is the woman who created that shadow-monster which murdered Renly?"

The other seemed to hesitate before setting himself and plunging in.

"Your Grace, yes I saw her give birth to that _thing -_ and I'll have nightmares for the rest of my days" he shook his head as if trying to purge the memory. "But I saw her do other things too. Things that I cannot explain away as simple tricks or murmery. She _did_ tell me that her magic - _all_ magic- was growing stronger, for the first time in decades, perhaps centuries. She seemed to think that the red comet in the sky had been a sign of something changing, that it was as if magic had been reborn into the world on that day. I can't speak to that, but I can speak to _her"_ he said, looking directly into Robb's face without flinching. "Your Grace, Your Grace; with respect, if these are the people you were thinking of going to, I must beg you to reconsider. They serve no interests except their own. Nothing good can come of them and their magic and it demands prices that no man should ever pay".

There was a rumble of agreement and nods around the room - and with that, Ser Davos had gone from a barely tolerated interloper into someone who spoke sense … to the clear dissatisfaction of other factions from the Stormlands as he sat back down.

"Well said, Ser Davos" Robb now nodded to him. "I agree the followers of the Red God cannot be trusted. If Melisandre ever shows back up, she'll have a great deal to answer for. But … it is not her or her Red Priests that I am thinking of approaching".

He paused to straighten up with his most authoritative bearing then. It was a good look for a King; confident and determined ... but Margay could tell that Robb was really just bracing himself for what he was about to say knowing it was going to generate … controversy.

She herself was not exactly convinced … but she trusted Robb and knew a united front was going to be critical going forward. So she would damn well sell it like she was entirely convinced.

"Some of you _may_ recall there was an argument between King Robert and my Father during his time as Hand of the King regarding Daenerys Targaryen, sister of Viserys, the so called 'Beggar King'. She had been married off to a Dothraki warlord by her brother, who was hoping to gain an army in return. Well 'shit happened', as my Brother would say" he noted with a glance at Theon earning a titter around the room, "and her brother and husband died and his army dispersed. She fled with a few retainers into the Red Wastes of Essos and that seemed to be the end of that. Until … right about the time that comet showed up in the sky, she walked back _out_ of the Red Wastes and arrived at the gates of the city of Qarth … with three young dragons".

There was an immediate reaction of noise and alarm at this as everyone started to speak at once. Robb held his hands up and tried to calm people down without much luck so Margary turned and with a gesture Captain Tarth stepped forward, unsubtly readying her Viper.

As if to prove magic did exist, everyone promptly shut up.

"Your Grace" Lord Royce was first to get a word in in the tense silence as he stood again, his face astonished and even slightly angry. "Are you suggesting that we try to _negotiate_ with the last of the Targaryens _?"_ the runelord asked with uncharacteristic bluntness. "A Targaryen in possession of _three Dragons_ as her ancestor when he conquered Westeros?!"

"Yes and no" Robb replied with equal directness. "Understand" he added, meeting the heated gazes around the room directly and unflinchingly, his eyes seeming to force people back into their seats they had half risen from, "I am _not_ suggesting we entertain _any_ thoughts of offering her the Iron Throne or bending the knee. _But, stop_ to think of what could be? If Valyrian Steel is effective against these creatures, I'd think that Valyrian Dragons would be even more destructive. Given the sheer number of dead bodies the Others could raise against us _and_ the fact that fire seems to be very effective against the army of the dead ..." he left the thought hanging and Margary could see that at least a _few_ people were pushing past their initial reaction to at least consider the possibilities of unleashing Dragonfire against their new enemy.

Not enough though. Or at least not enough able to see past it being unleashed on _them._  
She sighed softly.

 _It appears we will need to do this the 'hard way' then._

"Your Grace, I was _there_ that day in the Vale when news came of your Grandfather and Uncle" Royce continued with genuine passion in his voice, this was clearly something personal to him. "I _read_ the letter from the Mad King gloating over his murder of your kin, praising his sons kidnapping of your aunt and demanding Lord Arryn turn over both your Father and Robert Baratheon be be executed next. I fought _proudly_ with them to finally free ourselves of their madness once and for all. To bring them _back_..."

"My King, with the greatest of respect" now interjected Lord Hornwood, standing as well, "the Runelord has the right of it. We _cannot trust_ a daughter of the Mad King! Her Father was mad! _Both_ her brothers were mad! That entire family is cursed by the Gods and so is she! We do not need to-"

And then there again was the sound of a chair sliding back and Theon Greyjoy was on his feet, a surprisingly irritated look on his face as he, to Margery's alarm, _drew his pistol_ causing everyone to cringe away. Then he slapped it onto the polished table and with a hard shove, sent it spinning and skipping across the surface -in defiance of everything he had taught her about gun safety- to be caught by the very surprised looking Lord Hornwood.

"Well, let's get it over with then shall we?" he declared.

"Get what … my Lord?" the other stuttered, his gaze jerking back and forth between the polished silver revolver and Lord Greyjoy in no small amount of confusion and alarm.

"Executing me of course" the other said almost cheerfully, causing many an eye to _bulge_ for a second. Not hers though. _She_ fought back the urge to roll her eyes. It seemed her her Goodbrother-By-Another-Mother was going to be dramatic.  
As if he could do anything else.

"But .. I, why would I possibly-" the beleaguered Halys Hornwood asked and Theon shrugged seemingly indifferently - but his eyes were sharp and sardonic as ever.

"Well lets see" he raised a hand and started to count with his fingers. "My Father is -was- an oath-breaker many times over obsessed with his 'iron way'. My brothers were all just as bad. My uncle is _absolutely_ crazy although if it's a 'high-functioning' cray-cray, who knows? More than a few people think my sister is about as trustworthy as a sword without a handle. I mean if you're saying we should judge children by the action of their parents and siblings and not _their_ actions, then you _really_ should shoot me dead now given what House Greyjoy has done, right? Only good Greyjoy is a dead Greyjoy - just like the only good Targaryen is a dead one, right?"

" _Theon"_ Robb stated giving his brother a look. Theon sighed but obediently sat back down - his point made as Lord Hornfoot awkwardly passed the revolver to a guard and sat back down, looking just a little deflated at the blunt rebuke. Lord Royce slowly following after a second's hesitation. "My Father" Robb continued firmly into the moment, "as Hand of the King was _commanded_ by King Robert to kill Daenerys Targaryen, the 'Dragonspawn' as Robert called her. _He. Refused_ " Robb stabbed a finger onto the table for emphasis with each word. "He told the King, his all but Brother, that it was wrong to kill a woman who had not done him or the Seven Kingdoms any harm and went so far as to resign his position when Robert refused to bend on this matter. Despite _everything_ House Targaryen had cost House Stark, she had not proven herself his enemy and so he refused to be party to her murder". He paused for a second and directed that _look_ around the room with an intensity that made her shiver slightly. "I am _not_ Joffrey My Lords. I will not declare someone my enemy or judge them based on what someone else did. Only what _they_ did. And so far, she had done nothing to us".

Margary shivered slightly at the sheer _power_ in her husband's voice and the look in his eyes as he met the eyes of those who had been protesting to see if any would challenge him on this.

None could meet his gaze and glanced away.

A few even had the dignity to look ashamed at their previous outrage.

"Your Grace" a new voice joined in and Margary managed to not shiver as she turned to look into the dead eyes of the Lord of the Dreadfort.

She had gotten used to Ramsey Snow - but his Father's gaze still made something in the back of her mind shiver whenever she met it.

"Lord Bolton" Robb nodded, his calm restored.

"While I appreciate you're refusing to judge her an enemy without her declaring against us, neither has she done anything _for_ us or shown loyalty to Westeros. Given her brother was obsessed with the idea of retaking the Iron Throne, I would suggest that caution is at the least warranted in approaching her" he said, earning a murmur of agreement from the room. "Accordingly, I must ask what _do_ we know about this woman?"

"A fair question" Robb agreed easily, turning now to glance behind him. At the unspoken signal, Varys stood with a whisper of his robes, shuffling to the edge of the table and offering bows to the Royalty and nobility with a practiced smile that ignored the sour looks many of the assembled people gave The Spider right back.

She supposed a man in his position got used to being disliked.

"Your Grace, Lord Bolton, my Lords and Ladies" he expanded his greeting to the room before getting down to business. "As his Grace stated, Daenerys Targaryen was, for a time, married to a Dothraki Khal named Drogo. The Begger King clearly hoped to gain and army in return with which he would seize the Iron Throne. As it so happens, her brother died a few week before our tragic civil war broke out. Shortly thereafter, her husband _also_ died from injuries in a battle leaving her alone. As per Dothraki custom his warband broke apart and she was left with but a handful of followers, two dozen perhaps at most. It was known she had been gifted three Dragon Eggs at her wedding - thought to be only useful as status symbols given that no-one has hatched Dragons for so long. Clearly, somehow, she found a way and arrived with three very small but quickly growing Dragons at Qarth. There she procured a ship and sailed to Slaver's Bay - specifically the city of Astapor".

"She went to deal with _slavers?"_ Lord Karstark exclaimed. Figuratively; but clearly aghast and directing an incredulous look at his liege that said without saying 'And you _want_ to invite her back?!'

A look duplicated on a great many others faces in the room.

The Lannisters selling Northern men and women into slavery was _still_ an insult that seethed through not only the North, but all of Westeros. News of Tywin Lannister descending to such levels had frankly done as much to ruin his reputation after the Steel Wedding as the bullets fired by the assassins under Guest Right.

Robb however remained perfectly calm as the Spider moved to explain.

"Yes and no Lord Karstark" the Spider smiled thinly. "By the accounts I have, confirmed by multiple sources, she approached the Good Masters - rulers of Astapor and slavers to a man - with a deal. One of her Dragons in exchange for an army of Unsullied - the last of the army intended for Tywin Lannister that was unable to be shipped to him before the war ended. The exchange was made - and she kept her agreement to the letter. It was just that the Dragon promptly burned alive those trying to control it and her army of Unsullied were now loyal to _her_ , meaning when she told them to kill every Good Master and Slaver in the city while freeing every slave…" he offered a helpless shrug.

Margaery raised an eyebrow at that as a considered muttering passed through the room, fighting off the urge to shake her head in exasperation at the stupidity of these 'Good Masters'. She had heard of the Unsullied and their inhuman discipline. And _absolute_ obedience to their commander. Given that, what kind of an _idiot_ would you have to be to hand over control of them, inside your city _fools_ would hand over control of their entire army in such a fashion? It would be like taking considerable coin from some bandit in exchange for her pistol and being surprised when said bandit promptly shot her and took the coin back!

Margaery forced herself to concentrate back on the Spiders report as he talked briefly about the aftermath of the events.

"...and with a stable Government in place, she marched her army - now an army of free men who choose to fight alongside her - on the other two cities in the bay, Yunkai and Meereen. She liberated them in turn, again executed the slavers and put the slaves in charge as she started to work of rebuilding their cities into something new. She is now known as the Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains'".

"Well, I've always said it's good to have a hobby" Tyrion Lannister quipped into the silence as Varys finished. Clearly the taken aback Lords and Ladies who had certainly _not_ expected to hear that the last Dragon had _started a campaign against slavery_ of all things. "But it sounds like she has her hands full running her own little Empire over on the other side of the world. We would be asking her to drop all that and come back to Westeros … would she be _willing_ to do that?"

" _That_ is the question" Robb agreed.

Tyrion studied him for a moment. "What then, do you propose Your Grace?"

"Your Sister" Robb responded bluntly, "took my sister before we could stop her. The last information we have is that she may have been heading for Slavers bay; that army Daenerys took was originally intended for Tywin as his final last shipment of Unsullied Slaves. If she did go to the bay, it's likely both of them have been captured by Daenerys. And hopefully, the prisoner's your Father sold into slavery are also there somewhere".

Margary saw a subtle flinching in the face of Tyrion, at the reminder of his family's crimes against the North - and especially the Starks.

Good - he _should_ understand just how much his position was reliant on Stark goodwill right now … and how much more would be needed to _keep_ this seat at this table.

"I have six handpicked ships finishing preparations to sail in Blackwater Bay" Robb continued. "I had intended to send them to find my Sister and the other Northerners and bring them home, but given the events we've just heard of … " he paused and plunged ahead. "What I propose My Lords, is that we use the opportunity to also send a representative to Slaver's Bay to negotiate with Daenerys - hopefully we'll find our people alive and well at the same time. We use the chance to make contact, explain the situation and offer her a deal to come back to Westeros and fight the Others with us".

"You almost make her sound like a common Sellsword, Your Grace" Prince Doran spoke up for the first time … well, in a very long time. The Prince of Dorne had all but cut off communication with the rest of the Kingdoms since Robert's Rebellion Margaery knew, seeming to be content to sulk over the events of the Sake of King's Landing until finally all the people response had died. Robert gored to death. Tywin Lannister 'mysteriously' falling from the Tower of the Hand to his death. The Mountain that Rides shot to pieces, stabbed and then tackled by a Dire Wolf before finally falling to _his_ death. And Amory Lorch who had 'mysteriously' died at Harrenhal …

Still she knew not to underestimate him. Rumor had always dogged him that he had never truly reconciled himself to the Baratheon dynasty and secretly still saw them as usurpers. Theon himself in that annoying 'I know Something You Don't Know' way of his had all but outright confirmed he had information from somewhere that Doran had long planned to support the Beggar Prince … when the time was right.

Said Prince was of course dead, but now they were all talking about bringing his sister back.

On the other hand, his desire to support the Dragons was surely born out of revenge for his dead sister - but now all those responsible directly or indirectly for her death were dead. Curious he would speak up now.

"As the last of the Targaryens" Doran continued calmly, "Daenerys most probably views herself as the only true and right Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And thus, desires the Iron Throne".

"She can _have_ it" Umber snorted. "Pictures are ten pennies - fifty _if_ you want it framed - but the line is pretty long" he snarked causing a brief ripple of laughter around the room. Margaery knew he wasn't kidding about the line, smallfolk across all of King's Landing and beyond were lining up to the point that Ser Bronn was having to deploy a number of the Goldcloaks to keep the line under control and calm. Merchants, always one to see the chance to make a quick penny, were moving up and down the line selling refreshments. It was slightly surreal to Margary - the _Iron Throne_ now little more than a tourist attraction? But on reflection she decided it was quite a shrewd move by Robb. This denigration of the Iron Throne in front of the entire population of King's Landing helped to ensure no-one would ever see it as the center of power in Westeros ever again.

"The point" Doran continued after shooting Lord Umber an annoyed look, "is that if we are not going to offer her the rule of the Seven Kingdoms, what _can_ we offer her that she may settle for instead in exchange for her aid?"

"I propose Dragonstone" Theon put in before expanding on his point at the interested looks he got. "Stannis has already left with most of the nobility left on the island. We're going to need to put _someone_ in charge there anyway. It was the Targaryens home long before the Seven Kingdoms was formed so … why not just give it back and kill two birds with one stone?"

Margaery blinked. What an _odd_ turn of phrase. Surprisingly apt though.

"An … elegant idea" the Prince noted after an exchange of glances with his brother who seemed to shrug and offer a nod of approval. "Certainly it would seem to be a generous offer on the face of it and offer her a seat at this table-"

"And when history repeats itself?" Mya Stone broke in, her eyes flashing. "Aegon launched his conquest from there with three Dragons. What happens when she gets the same idea?" she demanded - and several of the Lord's clearly unhappy at the idea rumbled their agreement.

Though many less than the original outburst of anger she was pleased to see. It seemed the 'against' vote was shrinking by the minute.  
 _Excellent_.

"In that case her Dragons are blown out of the sky and House Targaryen dies" Theon answered in a matter of fact way. "I've already designed several adaptations to Northern weapons to give us effective anti-air-artillery capable of protecting both fixed fortifications and field armies. Her Dragons may prove to be critical against the Others thanks to their magic - and highly effective against massed armies of the undead … but they are simply no longer the threat they were in the past to _us_ given advances in weapons technology".

Mya Stone glanced around the room at that clearly looking for support to continue her arguments - but unsurprisingly found exactly no-one willing to challenge _Theon Greyjoy_ on the subject of Northern weapons technology.

 _Clearly Mya wanted Dragonstone to remain a Baratheon holding_ Margaery noted, wondering if she had planned to drop her claim for Storm's End in exchange for the island after Robb Stark had seemingly dismissed her request for support in favor of Stannis's Trueborn daughter.

Too bad for her.

Still, she had served the Army well enough _and_ could be a valuable ally. She would have to see if they could buy her off with some holdfast in the Crownlands somewhere - get her away from that mess in the Stormlands lest she otherwise decide to take her chances and set off a little war. They were no few small keeps whose Lords had died for Joffrey and needed a new family line...

"So to summarize" Robb retook control of the conversation, a modestly optimistic expression on his face. "We will send a representative to present an offer to Daenerys Targaryen. We will return to her the island of Dragonstone and allow her a seat at this table as a Lady of the Commonwealth. In exchange, she will raise her Dragons against Army of the Dead. We make also it clear to her that Westeros is beyond the Iron Throne - and beyond her ability to try and conquer. That we are willing to let House Targaryen again be part of the future of Westeros and to allow her to come home ... but that we will _never_ bend the knee to her. Agreed?"

"A fair offer" Doran agreed after a pause of consideration and the other senior Lords around the room nodded or mumbled their agreement too in turn. It was a cautious support, but support none the less, slightly unsure, but certinally far less unhappy than their initial leaping to conclusions about Dragon invasions and fields of fire. "But selling it to a young woman who may be convinced that the Iron Throne is her birthright could be a ... challenge" the Prince chose his words carefully.

 _Now there is an understatement_ she silently scoffed. Viserys Targaryen had been obsessed with regaining the Iron Throne, how much of that would have rubbed off on her?

And if she _was_ stricken with the Targaryen madness...oh well, to live was to risk.

"The key will be picking the right person to meet with her" Tyrion agreed with a thoughtful look on his face. "We need someone with the authority to undeniably speak on behalf of the Commonwealth. Someone senior enough to negotiate if necessary and make the offer stick - _and_ be willing to walk away if no agreement can be reached. To say nothing" he added dryly, "of convincing her that the White Walkers, the Others are actually both real and coming for us all..."

"So why not just send the same man who convinced us?" Oberyn Martell suddenly spoke up, a smirk on his face as he raised a hand to gesture at a surprised looking Theon Greyjoy.

Margary successfully fought the urge to laugh at that joke. Theon was many things - _wondrous_ things with a mind most were convinced was touched by the Gods ... but _this_ negotiation would take a deft hand. It needed someone with subtlety, patience and -

"Not a bad idea" Robb agreed suddenly looking entirely pleased with the idea, in turn causing most of the Lords around the table to smile and nod, clearly sure that this was the best idea ever.

 _Oh Seven, he didn't think it was a joke. Didn't he just see the mans 'negotiation tactics' of throwing his gun across the room and asking a man to shoot him?!_

On second refelction, she noted that not _quite_ everyone seemed to be enthusiastic about this. She exchange a glance with Tyrion Lannister -and that one look spoke volumes of what they both thought about this - then shifted to exchange a _look_ with her Goodmother that said even more, the expression of a woman who had needed to pull him back from blowing up Winterfell far too many times. Finally she dared to look across at Amarda Honn sitting behind Theon. Who was currently looking at the floor with her eyes shut, vigorously rubbing her nose where her glasses rested and looking like she suddenly had a major headache at the thought of her master running off on his own, 'off the leash', to the other side of the world.

Well _that_ settled that then. Men! Always making things so difficult.

So. what to do about it?

She of course knew better than to publicly disagree or argue with her husband and King in public - that way lay disaster and dissension that was death. Especially given that there appeared to be something of a consensus among the nobility that could not be risked. Theon _was_ going - that was impossible to stop if it had broad support ... support.

Ah. _That_ was the answer. Support!

"Indeed - not a bad idea" she lied through her teeth smoothly with a smile. "But I suggest we may need to think bigger than one person. I think our delegation should be made up of _several_ high-nobles from across Westeros to support the perception that we speak to her as one Commonwealth. To make it clear to Daenerys that she will not be able to play us against each other or hope for support from part of the Realm. We need to make her understand this is her _only_ option to return home in peace and be welcome among us - _and_ to confirm that they are all convinced the threat is real" she firmly declared, earning a thump of fists on the table from many Lords at that. "To that end, I nominate that we also send Lord Tyrion Lannister to assist Lord Greyjoy".

Tyrion blinked at that. Then he blinked again. Then he glanced at her, Robb, Theon and ... she thought perhaps Varys given the way his eyes shifted to focus behind her for just a moment.

"I am ... honored at the vote of confidence" he said slowly, his eyes shrewd. "I'm not sure I am the person you would want however given the historical tensions between my family and House Targaryen".

"From the stories I have heard, you and that sell-sword friend of yours were confronted with dozens of Vale Tribesmen on your way back from the Vale of Aryn" she countered smoothy - knowing that these stories had been spread far and wide in the bars and taverns of King's Landing. "By all accounts you should have been killed where you stood, instead you talked them into _working for you_ and escorting you back to your Father. You have shown a remarkable ability to think on your feet and a shrewd political mind" she complemented him, getting a series of nods around the table. Dwarf he may be, but _no-one_ with any brains doubted his political instincts and skills. "And while you are of course not _obligated_ to go" she said, to make sure he _would_ feel he had no choice but to go now, "I feel that you would be of enormous value. As much as anything else, it would show to the last Targaryen that we speak as one, which would be a powerful message".

"It would" he agreed slowly before glancing across the table and smiling slightly. "Which is why I accept your request _and_ nominate as the final member of our party Prince Oberyn Martell. After all" he added slightly sardonically to the surprised whisper of noise at that suggestion, "having someone who fought on the _other_ side of Roberts Rebellion for her family, standing with us, would be a powerful message as well would it not?"

The Red Viper raised an impeccably trimmed eyebrow at that, turning to glance at his brother, who after a moments consideration, nodded his consent, causing the younger brother to grin broadly and slap his hands in glee.

"Now _this_ sounds like it could be _fun_ " he chortled. "Or at _least_ the start of a bad joke; a Greyjoy, Lannister and Martell walk into a Targaryen bar..."

 **Mirror Notes:** I misread the comments from the Author. There's still a little bit to go before Volume II begins.


	47. XCVI, XCVII

**XCVI: New Page, Part 1**

 _AC 300, King's Landing, Westeros_

 **Theon**

My temporary office hadn't had... A lot, mind you. But standing here made me think about how far away I was from home. How far away I was from everything I'd ever built. How far I was from where I thought the fight was supposed to happen.

I looked around at the crates full of gear, books, and equipment. I bent down and sniffed the papers of one of the stacks. I shook my head.

"Theon?"

I looked over at the door entrance. Amarda was standing there, a clipboard in her hands. Her hair was up in an elegant bun and she wore a gorgeous blue dress with a jacket. I sighed and rubbed my temples, looking back at the crates.

"Hey," I said. "Preparations complete?"

"Nearly," Amarda said. She sucked in a breath. "Much of the equipment you asked for will be shipped onto the _Seawolf._ The _Venture_ will carry the other supplies. It's all on the list." She handed over the clipboard. I took it, my hands holding onto her. She looked up, her eyes meeting mine. I squeezed her hands together, and smiled warmly at her. She was so pretty, even as uncertain and distant as she was.

"What do you want to talk about?" I asked. Amarda sighed and looked aside. I cupped her chin and turned her face back to mine. "Really. What do you want to talk about?"

Amarda took a deep breath. "... This is everything you've been working towards. This is what you've been fighting for. Isn't it?"

I nodded slowly. "Probably."

Amarda raised her eyebrow quizzically. "Probably?"

"Well, there could be all sorts of other things that I might have been working for," I said. "Like the betterment of mankind, uplifting Westeros..."

"All of that are noble goals... But side goals to your main focus," Amarda said flatly. "This is what you meant about putting aside everything else, isn't it?"

I took another deep breath, my chest clenching. I managed to nod.

"Yeah. It is," I said.

Amarda sucked in a breath. She then looked me right in the eyes.

"Then if you have to... Marry Daenerys," she stated. Now it was my eyebrows' turn to rise.

"Wait, what? Look, that's on the table but-"

"But nothing. Princess Arianne can marry someone else and gain the same power and influence. No one else has dragons. No one else can help us save the world. She is a teenaged girl and you are one of the most famous men on this planet. So if you must... Do it." She adjusted her glasses. "Don't think about me. Don't think about anything else. Just do it."

I looked intently into her eyes, gritting my teeth. "Amarda... I can't-"

"Do it," Amarda ordered. "If you don't do everything in your power to save the world... Then any feelings I have for you are based on a lie. And I will not love a lie." She looked aside. "Do you understand, Lord Greyjoy?"

"I..." I took a deep breath. I forced myself to nod. "All right. I promise."

"Good," Amarda said softly. "I'll handle things in your absence, I-"

I lifted her chin up. Smiled. A smile part of me was able to feel genuine, while the rest of me felt hurt.

"I know. I wouldn't trust anyone else," I said genuinely. Amarda nodded back, a slight blush coming to her cheeks.

"It's funny how your priorities change when you know the world might end, isn't it?" I asked.

Amarda smiled a bit back. "It is," she agreed. She bit her lower lip... Before she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed my lips. Briefly, chastely, but is still sent a spark of electricity through my spine. I reached out to embrace her, but she pulled away. She turned away, and headed off, her head held high. I watched her go, and sighed.

"So... Get everything you wanted?" I asked the empty air.

Varys crept out from an alcove. The eunuch looked... Amused, and he nodded.

"Can any man truly be said to get everything he wants?" Varys asked. I shrugged.

"Ask some other man, because I haven't," I admitted. I looked over at Varys. "So... What now?"

Varys smiled. "Now... We protect mankind. It makes this game of thrones seem very pedestrian, doesn't it?"

"In the game of thrones, you either win or you die," I said. Varys cocked his head.

"Indeed... Who said that?"

I gave him a sickly smile. "Spoilers," I said cheerfully. "Also, if anything happens to Amarda-"

"It won't. Suffice it to say, it is in all our best interests to allow such an incredible mind to remain on our side," Varys said. I nodded, feeling a bit foolish.

"Thanks." I turned and headed down the hallway. I had a ship to catch, a dragon princess to woo... And a world to save.

Since when did I become a shonen manga hero?

* * *

 **XCV: New Page, Part 2**

 _AC 300, Yunkai, Dragon's Bay, Essos_

 _?_

The captain's cabin of Euron Greyjoy's warship was a dark, foreboding room, filled with the arcane plunder of a lifetime of sailing where man was not meant to travel ... Shelves lined with trinkets and trophies, strange scents of alien spices and the glitter of bejewelled death masks of long forgotten kings ... The only illumination came from a tiny, open window cut in one wall, and a handful of scattered, glass covered lanterns.

A grilling sound drew Eurons attention to the window, but he just grinned as he saw a tiny seabird land on the ledge. Lifting a finger to his lips, he shushed the bird, then chuckled at his little joke.

"Silence is golden… Or would be, if I could afford the plating," he sighed. "Can you imagine? A world where gold is plentiful enough to plate a ship! Such waste, such extravagance. It's a fucking miracle, that's what it is. Humans will always be humans, no matter how powerful they become." He turned to his guest, sitting in the chair across his desk. She was silent, bound in canvas and rope. One rope served as a gag across her thin, disapproving lips. "Yet that's the kind of world I saw. One I liked."

He looked the woman up and down, smirking deeply. He walked around the desk and drew his long dagger, letting it glint in the dim light. He slid his knife down, through the rope, and it broke quickly. The canvas hood slid off, revealing rivulets of blonde hair that tumbled down her back. Icy gray eyes glared at him, her thin lips pressed into a sneer.

Euron reached back to the desk, and procured a bottle. He pulled the cork, and took a long draught of the blue liquid. He let it dribble down his lips, and grinned down at Cersei Lannister.

"So tell me, my lady… You just like being tied up? That a fucking thing with you?" He took another swig, as the fugitive queen lifted her pointed chin in defiance.

"It's not like it could affect me in any real way. My God watches over me," she said in a low, even chuckled, and set his bottle down. He wiped his lips, and leaned forward.

"So he does… There's plenty who would watch over a hot fuck like you. So, tell me… Why the blonde bitch queen? Can't be for protection: The price on her head is just as high as yours."

The blonde woman… Shrank. Her hair turned from gold to a deep, red copper color. Her skin became pale, her lips full and red. Her eyes large and warm, but no less dangerous. She shrugged demurely, placing her hands in her lap.

"Convenience," Melisandre said. "She was convenient for the time, and people want her alive. And it got me an audience with you." She smiled.

"Well, I'm not gonna shoot you just yet. What do you want?" Euron asked, genuinely curious.

"In my visions of flame, I saw four faces. One I do not recognize, Theon Greyjoy, Daenerys Targaryen... And you, Euron Greyjoy. I want to know why." She tilted her head like a curious cat. Euron scoffed, shaking his head.

"Why? You really think I'll just give it up like that?" Euron's scoff turned into a laugh. Melisandre remained as unperturbed as ever. He wondered what it would take to rattle her.

"Of course not. But given we face a common foe, the sharing of certain information would be useful. After all, I came this far."

Euron grumbled a bit. "I hate a damn cunt with sense…" He stalked around the desk to stare out the windows. The bird was still there. He ignored it as his gaze went out. Far beyond the sea, and the port. Far beyond the curvature of the world itself.

"... Your visions in fire tell you about things, do they not? All sorts of random crap you try to fit into a proper picture?" He asked in a soft, distant tone.

Melisandre nodded. ""Not how I would put it, but you are an unbeliever-"

Euron turned around and slammed his bottle of blue onto the desk. It shattered, the pieces flying all over the deck. Melisandre didn't flinch, even as Euron loomed over the desk with a wide eye and gaping, panting jaw.

"WRONG! I believe… Because I have seen it," he bellowed. "I have seen everything! I know… The shape of the world! I know… And I believe."

Melisandre's stare never wavered. "Seen… What?" She asked, eyes glowing in interest.

Euron stalked back around the table, looking down at his hands. He slowly looked up to her, his wild eye meeting hers.

"... The future. The past. One and the same," Euron whispered harshly, a mad grin emerging on his face. "I saw Ned Stark's head chopped off like I was there myself, to a baying crowd's delight. I saw the fall of the Wolf King to that toad's trickery, his head lopped off and his wolf's head sewn onto his shoulders instead. I saw his rose bitch marry little Tommen, and then be burnt away in a flash of wildfire. I saw the Wall fall, to a dragon serving the Night's King... I saw it all. All of it."

Melisandre sucked in a deep breath. "But those things-"

Euron held up a hand. "Haven't happened? No... But they did. Time was set in one way, a single... Session. Of hundreds of events, all seamlessly fitting together. Like a fucking song, formed by an orchestra. Then…" He took a deep breath. "It all changed. Like someone sent knowledge of it back, to another session. Changed the song. All through a single person."

Melisandre stared, and licked her lips as a sudden thought hit her. "But who…? Daenerys Targaryen?"

"Theon Greyjoy! My very own nephew!" Euron announced, spreading his arms wide and laughing wildly. "Of all the people, he was fucking chosen to get the knowledge of the session! And plenty more besides!" He leaned forward, and grinned.

"If I'd gotten to him even a bit sooner, we could have had it all in our hands by now. It's not every uncle who can say his nephew rules most of the world." Euron shook his head, chuckling in satisfaction.

"So why all this?" Melisandre asked.

"Because I couldn't get close to him," Euron said, shaking his head, "not close enough. I had to bring him here. And through him, I can find the one who sent him back in time. And have him start it all over again."

Melisandre stared at Euron, biting her lower lip. "Why?" She asked.

"So that I can be the one making the changes... Making the decisions. I could use a hot bitch like you on my side though. What do you say? Shape the world, as you wish," Euron said with a grin. Melisandre scowled.

"The Lord of Light-" The Red Priestress tried, but Euron invaded her personal space and took her hands.

"If everything falls to ice and death, his edicts don't fucking matter... Unless he planned for this. Unless he was ready to send you back to get it right. Don't you get it? He's handing you his power, the true power of God. And all you have to do... Is reach out, and take it." Euron grinned. Melisandre stared back at Euron, and began to laugh. She laughed softly, dangerously, the dim light glinting in her eyes.

"... You would be a dangerous ally, Euron Greyjoy."

"Yeah," Euron said, leaning in to touch his nose to hers. His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "But I'd be a worse enemy. I'm going to get that power... And you can help me, or I'll just deal with you next time. What will it be?"

"... If it aids the Azor Ahai in his destiny? It will come to pass. If not? It will fail. For the moment, Euron Greyjoy... I am with you."

"Good," Euron grinned, stroking her chin. "So… What happened to the blonde bitch queen, anyway?"

Melisandre shrugged. "Still alive. I need her to remain so for the spell."

Euron chuckled. "Well… Maybe we can find a use for her, too…"

He threw another bottle at the window. The bird fluttered away, frightened...

And Bran Stark was left blinking away sleep. He started, taking deep breaths as he looked around. Summer was still wrapped around him like a warm blanket. Jojen was on his right side, snoozing. Qyburn was on the other, and Hodor was behind them with his huge arms around them protectively.

Bran looked up at the ceiling of the long abandoned cabin, his heart pounding in his ears. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how long he had left.

All he knew was that he had to find the Three Eyed Raven. As soon as possible. For _everyone's_ sake.

 **TO BE CONTINUED IN "GREYJOY ALLEGRO"**


	48. Canon Omakes - Thunder, Pykes

**Omake: The King's Thunder**

298 AC, Winterfell, The North

King Robert Baratheon took a swig from his wine skin as he swung down from his horse, with the able assistance of several Baratheon armsmen. "Gods, Ned, man was not meant to get up this early in the morning: my bed calls out to me, as does the three lovely lasses that still keep in warm, while you drag me all across your cold, wet land. Why so cold, Ned? You'd think you Northerners would get tired of the same weather all the time!"

"Hardly the same all the time," insisted Lord Eddard Stark, dismounting rather more gracefully than his liege: the advantage of being several stone lighter. "Look at today's weather: the snow is on the ground, the wind chills from the Wall, and it rained for an hour after sunrise. Why, it's practically Summer! Sometimes, you know, it actually gets _cold_ up here."

"Ha, ha, _fucking_ ha, Ned," grumbled the king, taking another drink before tossing the wineskin to a waiting servant. "So what's so bloody important that you had to drag me all the way out here?" He looked about at the grey stone cliffs about them.

"This was one of the quarries my ancestor's used to cut the stones that formed Winterfell. These days, we've found another use for it." He waved the King over to where a group of workmen were fussing around an odd-looking contraption, a long cylinder of metal placed on large wagon wheels. Standing nearby was a young man in grey, overseeing the workers.

Robert grunted. "Greyjoy, eh? Ned, I know you've grown a bit attached to the lad, but need I remind you ... he's a fucking Greyjoy! More, he's a hostage: if Balon ever decides to lose his mind again, it's your job to put that fancy sword of yours through his scrawny little neck!"

Ned sighed. "Honestly, from what I've learned, Balon cares very little for the boy, yet he has proven time and again to be of great value to the North and the Realm. He ... Theon longs to be useful, and his mind is ... unique. Besides: I think you will like what he's created here." The king grunted again in a non-committal tone, and let Ned lead him over to the boy. "Theon: I hope your little demonstration is ready?"

Young Theon Greyjoy seemed to be a bundle of nervous energy, his eyes constantly darting from one point of interest to another, but paused when he looked at the king, and swept into a deep bow. "Your Grace: thank you for coming."

"It had better be good, little squid, or I'll have the castle's cooks start preparing calamari."

Theon laughed somewhat nervously but launched into his prepared speech. "Right. So, today we have a demonstration of the newest model of gun produced by Winterfell's craftsmen. We had such great success with the six pound cannon that I went ahead and poured a nine pound bronze barrel."

"Boy, I care little for barrels unless they contain wine ... or women ... or both," interrupted the king. "And I've seen your thunderers: nice little toys, but hardly a replacement for a good hammer!" But he paused and studied the large metal device. "Although, I've never seen one of your 'guns' that fucking _big_ before."

"Absolutely, Your Grace: most of the weapons we've traded South have been of the handheld variety, and not exactly the most powerful or accurate versions. This, if you will, is the scorpion to the musket's crossbow." He pointed across the quarry and indicated where three stakes had been driven into the ground, one in front of the other, a heavy steel breastplate fastened to each. "Here is our target: they represent a thickly packed block of infantry."

"Expensive fucking infantry, if they're all wearing plate like that," grumbled Robert.

"True, but I find it's best to test against the worst case scenario: imagine a group of dismounted Reach knights, instead."

"Hehehe, I'm liking it better already ... how about Dornishmen instead?"

"Of course, Your Grace. So, these Dornish knights are advancing towards us, but fortunately, we have our new weapon loaded and ready." He paused, then glanced over his shoulder. "I said, _we have our new weapon loaded and ready_!"

"Aye, Lord Theon, loaded and ready!" cried one of the men, belatedly realising that he had missed his cue.

Sighing, Theon raised a hand and indicated a nearby structure, a heavy berm of earth, sandbags and wooden beams with a narrow viewing slit. "If you would be so kind, Your Grace, my lord?"

"What: you expect me to hide while you show off your new toy?" demanded the king, but Ned coughed.

"Robert ... while his inventions are generally effective, they're not always successful the first time they're tried, and guns this big tend to ... well, explode. Violently. Like a jar of wildfire combined with a shower of metal shards flying faster than arrows. You can do what you like, but I'm going behind the blast shield."

Robert looked over where Theon was attaching a long string to the rear of the gun, and shrugged, following his best friend. "This had better be worth the trouble," he stated, as Theon started to shout.

"This is the nine-pound smoothbore cannon, firing at stationary targets, test number one! In three, two, one ... fire!" he screamed, yanking on the rope, and Robert cried out in surprise as he felt the KRACK-THOOM! of the explosion pass through his chest, rattling his teeth and driving the breath from his lungs. The smoke and fire drew images of long dead dragons to mind, and immediately he knew why Theon insisted on calling his weapons ' _guns_ ' ...

"By the Crone's wrinkled teats," he breathed, as the smoke started to clear ... and all three of the targets were _gone_. Not battered, not knocked about ... _destroyed_. Workers ran out to pick up the ruined breastplates from the wreckage, and Robert was stunned to see that each had neat holes as big as his fist ... well, Ned's fist ... right through the middle.

"Of course, this is a single cannon, shooting at stationary targets," noted Theon, pulling a piece of rag cloth from his ear, "But I think it shows the potential. Imagine a dozen of these guns, firing once every two minutes, or faster, into packed enemy formations. Imagine, instead, a scythe tearing through wheat." He smiled. "An old Ghis writer said that infantry was the queen of battle: well, cannon is the king, and we all know what the king does to the queen, right?" he asked cheekily.

"Boy, I know what you're meaning, but it doesn't happen all that often." But then he grinned. "But I love it! A dozen, you say? No, instead, imagine a score of them! I don't care how much it costs, but I want ranks of your bronze dragons to make my armies invincible in battle! Ha!"

Theon cleared his throat. "If you please, Your Grace, we also have a demonstration of what happens when our cannon strike at stone walls: the effect is quite impressive."

Robert grinned. "They work against walls, too? By the gods, boy, I'm starting to see why Ned likes you so much! Seven hells, I might just adopt you myself: gods know that little blonde twit isn't much good for an heir." He snorted. "Hard to believe he's mine, come to think of it. Anyway: got anything else that throws thunder about? Boy?" Robert paused, and slapped the choking Theon on the back. "Come on, lad, better out than in. What's got into you? Someone bring the Squid a drink!"

* * *

 **Bringing The Pykes Down**

His father had been a simple captain in a trading ship, whose home was in Bear Island, who had to risk his life pretty much every month in travels north and south along Westeros' western coast, avoiding pirates, Ironborn reavers and other low-lives of the seas. He had died in one of those travels, to Ironborn reavers just as Balon Greyjoy started his first rebellion, leaving his mother a widow and him as the eldest of three siblings that were now orphans. He had followed his father's steps, and joined the North's merchant navy, and had been witness to all the changes Theon Greyjoy – the only good thing to ever come out of those gods-be-damned Iron Islands – had introduced to his profession. And, when the War of the Five Kings started, he had joined the Northern Navy, ready to pummel the Lannisters and the idiots that followed Balon Greyjoy into a second rebellion.

And here he was now. He was Lord Rickard Stormbear, one of the most important and powerful men in the Northern Navy, and high enough in the structure of power that he had been hand-picked to be the second in command on board of the HNMS _Old Bear_ , the most powerful ship in the Sunset Sea, which was now sailing south and west as the sun rose from the coast. At points, he wished he was the captain of this beautiful, wonderful ship, but she who had been granted that honor was a magnificent choice, and if asked, he would feel no shame and all pride when claiming who he served under.

"A good morning to you, Lord Stormbear," Lady Lyanna Mormont, Captain of the HNMS _Old Bear_ , said as she joined him on the prow of the ship, where the seawater spray gave the air a wonderful smell. He touched the brim of his hat in deference to the girl – who was closer to his eleventh than his tenth nameday – that was his immediate superior.

"A good morn to you as well, Lady Captain," he replied. "I trust that you had a good night sleep?"

"Aye, I did. Now, please, tell me how the preparations for our mission are."

"Fairly well, Lady Captain. Every sailor understands their role very well, Lord Glover's soldiers know the stakes are high, the Mechmen and Gearwives are finishing their revision of our artillery and those in charge of logistics are ensuring our supplies are in a good place. We may not have as many soldiers as we would like, or as it would be usual, but they are all quite optimistic about our chances. Whatever the Ironborn have should not be able to stop our attack."

"Perhaps the men ought to remember that, right now, we do not have the numbers to carry out large operations like those they faced against the Lannisters," Lady Lyanna said, touching on one of the points that had been stressed well enough in the last days. "And also that underestimating the enemy causes all sort of problems. The Lannisters underestimated us, the Ironborn underestimated us... look where both are right now."

Rickard nodded, acknowledging the point. When the war began, the Lannisters had believed thunderarms were nothing but toys, the Ironborn had thought they were the be-all and end-all in the seas. In the end, the North had proven them wrong: the former had fallen to revolver, rifle and cannon, and the latter's ships now adorned the depths of the Sunset Sea.

"Still, they are all hopeful that we will be able to put an end to the Ironborn." That was the dream every person from Bear Island had had, from babes just born to those a step away from the tomb: an end for the ancient enemy, the one the Starks had saved them from. And the irony of it, was that the one that was making it possible was an Ironborn, even if by birth: everyone agreed that Theon Greyjoy was as Northern as a Stark. "And there's also the news about the Wall, and what's beyond it. The sooner we put an end to this last rebellion, the sooner we will be able to go north and help."

The Captain nodded, her gaze fixated on the horizon – maybe thinking about her great uncle, gone missing in the Great Ranging that had brought the news about the White Walkers – when Jonas, the ship's maester – not actually from the Citadel, but given his job, the name had stuck – had come to them, carrying a piece of paper.

"Lady Captain, Lord Stormbear, we have just received a raven from the _Hungry Wolf_."

"Finally," Lady Lyanna murmured, taking the paper and beginning to read it. The HNMS _Hungry Wolf_ was the newest ship to come out of Bear Island's dockyards, of the same design that had created the _Old Bear_ , and captained by Lady Alysanne Mormont. "Appears she, along with her escorts, passed Sea Dragon Point several hours ago. They ought to be in our sights soon enough."

"That will be a lot of firepower in our hands," he pointed out. "Perhaps, even enough to destroy the entire Iron Fleet – the one they had before they made the mistake of fighting us."

"Best not to assume anything, however," the Lady Captain replied. "We do know that they have probably taken some Goat Guns from what few merchantmen they were able to overwhelm, and if our spies are right, Euron Greyjoy somehow managed to convince a Braavosi forge to build him a few copies of our basic Burners. Certainly not enough to stop our attack, but quite probably enough to cause us problems when the time comes for us to assault Pyke."

"'Tis a pity we have no ship capable of tendering balloons," Jonas said. "We could drop anchor a few miles away from the coast, send a balloon up and have the men determine what fortifications and cannons the Ironborn have managed to place."

"Capital idea, Jonas. Take that note down, and when we are done with this fight send it. Perhaps Theon Greyjoy, or maybe the Karstarks, will be able to make your idea feasible."

Before any of them could continue their conversation, from port began to ring a bell, catching their attention and their eyes. They soon fixated their sight on the ship nearest to them – the _Bolt_ , one of the _Old Bear_ 's escorts – whose lookout had managed to sight something, and the flags carried the message now.

"A small fleet of Ironborn raiders, numbering about twenty, coming from the south. Probably an attack on the Reach?"

"It matters not. General quarters, Lord Stormbear. I want those ships captured, and a few Ironborn captains along with them – if they have any useful information, I want to know it before we attack Pyke."

Rickard nodded, and turned his eyes to the rest of the crew.

"Stop lollygagging, you third-rate slackers! I want this ship ready for combat YESTERDAY! Snow, sound general quarters!"

"GENERAL QUARTERS!" the sailor shouted through his siren, and soon everyone was moving around, preparing the artillery and the thunderarms for the incoming fight.

"Lya!" Alysane Mormont, second daughter of Lady Maege Mormont, said as she approached her youngest sister and hugged her, a hug the girl returned with a rare smile gracing her features.

"Aly!" she replied, leaning into her, and Alysanne kissed her brow after they broke their hug. "How are Maege and Jeor? It's been quite a while since I last saw them."

"Quite fine, thank you very much. They are safely ensconced in my cabin at the ship, and would really like to see their aunt."

"You brought them here, to the frontline?" Lyanna asked, more curious than affronted. Alysane snorted.

"Please, they would be in more danger at home, where I can't make sure to keep an eye on them. Maege is but a nameday or two younger than you are, and I could barely leave poor Jeor on his own. Plus, this way, they will start to get used to live on a ship – Mother may actually be planning to start Maege on the path of learning how to lead a ship – and Jeor is starting to learn how to fight."

"Thank the Gods, the Ironborn would have a hard time trying to get in the _Hungry Wolf_... unless they were prisoners."

"That's how much I trust the _Theon_ ," Alysane said, chuckling. At Lyanna's raised eyebrow, Alysane smirked. "That's how everyone here has taken to unofficially call the ship. After all, it is named after Theon Stark. And other certain Theons."

Lyanna sighed. She had heard Alysane say she would have liked to grab Theon Greyjoy and ensure he gave her a third child – in the House of the Bears, children learned what went on in their elders' chambers quite sooner than usual – but, right now, she could not see the appeal.

"Well, let's get with the matter that concerns us. Yesterday, I found an Ironborn raiding party that surrendered as soon as they caught sight of the _Old Bear_ – they thought iron ships were just tales by 'cowards running from the fight' – and they, as well as the thralls we have liberated, have been quite talkative about recent events. For example, we now know that Euron Greyjoy has taken two thirds of the Iron Fleet away to the east – they claim he is gone to make Daenerys Targaryen marry him – along with the best cannons he could claim. Also, we have confirmed that some hapless Braavosi supplied him some cannons, and between those, the Goat Guns they have taken and their own crude copies, Greyjoy thought it would be enough to protect Pyke from us."

Alysane cracked up laughing, holding onto the nearest table for support.

"Seriously? He _is_ as crazy as people claim! Those things are _toys_ compared to our Mark Four Burners! Nevermind they must be unreliable as _shit_!"

Lyanna rewarded her sister with another smile, before making her point.

"Indeed. The description of those cannons make my Mechmen think they should not be able to resist shooting for long without blowing up. Though, I do not intend to put that to test – so I guess we ought to deal with this in the safest way possible – for us. Don't you think?"

"Of course, of course! Well, what does your fine mind, and that of your men, have come up with to put an end to these iron idiots, little sister?"

"Let's say I am of a mind to do it the easy way."

The sun was rising over Lordsport, Pyke's main port, and people followed by leaving their homes and preparing themselves to do what jobs they had. Some fixed up their homes, others readied their ships to go out there to fish, and a few manned the watchtowers that kept vigilance on the seas, either for the return of their king or to warn the rest of the island in case the greenlanders decided to attack them.

The air around the island was heavy and humid, mist covering everything on sight, making it impossible to see beyond fifty yards. But, if there was something that permeated the air in Pyke and the rest of the Iron Islands, it was... despondency.

"Reckon Dagmar ought ta have come back already, don't ya think?" one of the men on one of the watchtowers said, while polishing, as best as he could, the 'gun' he was in charge of.

"Prolly got busy with taking saltwives and thralls from those weaklings in the Reach," one of his fellows replied, although, by the tone of his voice, it was obvious he did not hold much hope of that happening.

"Prolly got sunk, you mean."

"Don' say that, Reg. You'll see, any time soon, they'll be there, and we can take our pick of the saltwives."

"If there's any left 'fore we can, they'll be ugly 'n old."

"If she can give you salt sons, who cares 'bout the face?"

In another tower, the situation was slightly more lively.

"Get down from there, ya idiot," the old reaver – too old to go on a reave now – told the eight-and-ten boy that had decided to ride the gun like a horse. "Or else I'll think y'are compensatin' for somethin'."

"Pretty words, old man. Who d'you learn'em from? One of 'em greenlander buggerers?"

"Me mother, y'arse." The old reaver decided to cut to the chase and slapped the youngster on the back of the head, immediately making him fall from the gun. "Best learn ta keep yer mouth shut, if ye wanna live."

The boy stood up and glared at the old man, sulking as he sat on one of the stools.

"Man, can't wait 'til King Euron comes back with that dragon girl. We'll sure get to kick them greenlanders and take what is ours."

"Don't count yer ships afore gettin' outta th' storm, boy. We don' know when he's gettin' back, and we don' know if them greenlanders will c'mere afore he does."

"We've got guns, old man! If they come, they'll get blown, and when they run away, our longships will take'em!"

"Where d'you think da King got'em guns from? Them coward greenlanders and th' fuckin' Boomsquid made'em, we took'em by th' Iron Price. They're bound ta have more of'em."

"Bah! They're cowards! They come 'ere, they'll die!"

BOOM!

The men in every watchtower cringed as they heard the explosion, and it was soon followed by the screams of the people of Lordsport as they ran to take cover, and the sound of a falling tower mixed with that of the men that had been within.

"By the Drowned God..." the older man said, already wishing he was somewhere else.

"Those fuckin' greenlanders!" the boy screamed, pointing to the sea. "They're usin' the mist to cover themselves!"

The bells rang, and men started to run to the port, so they could board their longships and take them out to sea to defend their island, but as they did another explosion rang, and a second watchtower fell.

"LOAD THOSE GUNS, YOU FUCKIN' BASTARDS! FIRE AT'EM! FIRE!" someone shouted, loud enough to be heard in several of the watchtowers, and those who had yet to run away began the arduous process of loading the guns. It was a difficult task, for they had barely had the chance to practice – gunpowder was very scarce 'round these parts – but as the ships began to reach the open sea, they managed to push the balls in, some in iron, most in stone, and lit the guns.

Two of the cannons burst in pieces, unable to stand the pressure of the explosion, and left their crews dead or dying. As for the others... none of the balls managed to cover half the distance between themselves and the attacking ships.

On board of the ships, other discussions were taking place.

"It's only one ship! We send enough ships there, we can take it and use it against'em!" ones said, trying to maintain the balance as they led their ship in the direction of the explosion.

"D'you think the greenlanders would send just _one_ ship on its own to attack us?" others replied, wanting to keep their ships away from the enemy.

In those ships that were rowed by thralls, the mood was suitably better.

"The North is here!" some of them whispered: being Northerners themselves, they knew how cannons sounded, and those cannons were clearly the ones used by their Navy. "We are safe!"

"How? They do not know we are here," others replied, fearful of both the Ironborn who had taken them from their homes and of dying because a Northern ship chose to sink the longship they were being forced to row.

"Then, we take the Ironborn down and take the ship for ourselves."

In those ships that carried cannons, the men were bloodthirsty, their eagerness to finally strike at their hated enemy with their own weapons visible to all, so much that it could be even smelled in the air.

But their joy was to be short-lived.

In the _Thrall's Bane_ , one of the thralls, a former Northerner sailor that had been biding his time until he could get back at those squids that had captured him and his friends, took the chance when the one closest to him turned his back on him, maybe fully confident that he would not dare to do anything.

Then, the sailor jumped and grabbed him from behind.

"Got you, you fucking asshole," the sailor growled in the Ironborn's ear, before beginning to crush his throat with one of his hands. The Ironborn tried to grab his sword, but another thrall took it and stabbed him through his heart, killing him in an instant. Blood left the Ironborn's body as he fell to the ground, the metallic smell spreading to the nose of every other man around, and the men that had been forced to work for the men that had captured them sprang into action.

The group took advantage of the shock this caused on the Ironborn to attack them. In a different situation, it would have ended up in their deaths. Some died, unfortunately: but the recent events had caused the number of reavers per ship to drop.

"The ship is ours!" the former thralls shouted after killing the last Ironborn standing, and one of them climbed up the mast to take out the black flag with the yellow squid. The flag fell to the deck, and another decided to make his feelings known by pissing on it, to the cheers of every other man in the ship.

"Well, will you look at that?" Lady Alysane Mormont told her aide, Lady Lyarra Flint, and her second, Lord Jon Frost. "Those four ships have broken off the main group and stricken their banners."

"Strange. That ain't the Ironborn way. Normally, they do not surrender until they see they are going to be fucked like bitches if they don't," Lyarra replied with a smirk.

"We can worry about that later. The problem now is the score of ships that _are_ coming our way," Lord Frost indicated.

"Signal the _Bull_ to halt their attack and return to us. We should be able to cross the Ironborn's T when they get close enough."

Soon, the _Bull_ – the ship that had been firing at the port with quite the high grade of accuracy – raised anchors and began to turn around to attract the attention of the incoming Ironborn ships and bring them to the trap laid beyond the horizon. The rising sun would make it hard for them to notice the ships until they were too close for it to matter, and placing the wooden ships in front before allowing the

The Northern ships were already prepared for the fight, and it was but a matter of waiting.

"When do you figure the Ironborn will realize what's really going on?" Lyarra asked.

"If we are lucky, when it is too late for them to go back."

Not knowing how four of their brethren ships had been taken over by the thralls that had been rowing them, the Iron Fleet – or what remained of it, after all the mishaps it had suffered in the last year and a half – sailed out to meet that upstart Northern ship that had dared attack them in their own homes. The wind was in their favor as they persecuted the retreating greenlander ship, but the distance made it impossible to reach it with their 'chase cannons', but it would not matter, for the longships were faster than the greenlanders' ship: soon, they would be able to...

"Ships on sight!" a sailor in the crow's nest of the _Kite_ cried out, looking upon the horizon.

"What is it, Ream?" the ship's captain shouted, as the other sailors prepared for battle.

"Greenlanders! Northern ships!" the lookout replied, starting to enter in panic. Immediately, that same sort of panic spread to the men below him: never mind how much bluster they projected, every and each of them knew that any kind of fight with a Northern warship would end in the death or destruction of whatever hapless Ironborn had decided to pick a fight with them.

"How many?" the captain asked. Maybe, just maybe, the Drowned God would feel kind this time, and allow them a fighting chance. Unfortunately for the captain, the sailor was not so good with his numbers, and with the battle nerves starting to show up in him, the sudden discovery he had just made and the much different case of nerve he suddenly had, there was only one thing he could say.

"All of them!"

Quite the exaggeration, of course: the Northern ships were but a fraction of what the Northern Royal Navy could deploy at its finest. But the ships that fate – or the Storm God, perhaps – had placed on their way were more than enough to pummel down the sad, pitiful remains of what had once been a powerful force.

It was too late, however. Inertia – that property of objects where they keep a certain path unless enough force is applied to change it – pushed them forward, towards the enemy. And, as the horizon approached, they could see the ship they had been going after rushing to meet the large wooden boats, and...

"What the fuck?" the lookout said, rubbing his eyes, thinking they were betraying him.

They were not. For, in front of him – of his ship, of the Iron Fleet – stood two large ships, larger than any he had ever seen, both shining under the rising sun. Shining like the steel of the sword, the gold of the dragon.

"Iron ships. IRON SHIPS!"

Iron ships! A few of them still believed that they were but a myth, made up by survivors to hide their cowardice, or their inability to live by the Iron Price. Now, before them stood the proof that it was no myth.

It was nightmare.

Before they could turn around, the cannons on board of every greenlander ship exploded, and soon thereafter the Ironborn were divided between those lucky enough to die fast, those lucky to be able to jump off their ships and grab anything that floated, and those who were injured and unable to get out of the ships before they sunk.

For them all, though, it was the end of everything they had lived with.

"And so dies the iron dream," Lord Stormbear said as the last remains of the Iron Fleet sunk.

"Detail ships to rescue the survivors. The other ships must advance. I want every cannon in there destroyed," Lady Lyanna replied.

"Aye."

The watchtowers were rapidly abandoned by panicking Ironborn, who warned, shouted, screamed in panic about the now approaching Northerners. How the Iron Fleet had been sunk before they could even make a dent on the enemy. They had lost.

The answer differed. Mothers hid in their homes with their children and babes, many with a knife in hand as a last resort defence. Young men and women either hid or brought whatever weapons they could find to fight the invaders when they came. The Drowned Men, as one, prepared for a fight.

And then the _Daggers_ arrived to Lordsport.

"Tell _Hot Knife_ , _Greatsword_ and _Axe_ to look in all the ships that are still in port," Lady Alysane said. "If there's thralls in them, free them. If there is anything of value in them, take it. And then, _Hot Knife_ is weapons free."

"Aye, aye," Lord Frost replied, and turned to give the appropriate orders, wanting to watch the HMS _Hot Knife_ 's special weapon.

Many months before, Tyrion Lannister had come up with a plan that had wrecked Stannis Baratheon's fleet, using wildfire to destroy and burn them with no hope of saving them. The Mormonts did not have access to wildfire – not that they would be interested in its use, given how volatile it was, and also because of its association with the Mad King – but had taken a page out of that book and, with the collaboration of the Bolton Mechmen, had created the _Hot Knife_ , a ship that was essentially a _Dagger_ but with a special addition: the existence of a Salamander that could fire as a chase weapon. They knew it was a somewhat situational weapon, as the range was too short in comparison with that of cannons, but when about ninety percent of the other navies were still reliant on boarding and ramming other ships, the _Hot Knife_ – which also had several cannons for long distance attacks – was perfect for the act of making the enemy ship a living hell for its sailors.

Soon enough, the _Hot Knife_ was prowling in Lordsport's dock. None of the ships contained rowers of any kind, whether thralls or free men, but all of them contained maps, and one or two even small hidden treasures that were taken to the _Hot Knife_ or its partners in this special attack.

Two small doors on the front of the ships opened, and out came two wolves' heads, made of steel and with silver touches... their eyes red like rubies, and their mouths full of blue, red and yellow and every colour in between.

And then, _Hot Knife_ opened fire – pun completely intended.

The first ship they met, the _Tentacle_ , burned quite easily, and it broke down and sunk less than a minute after the Salamander started to spit burning northfire at it. All other ships within the port soon suffered the same fate, and as they did, the stink of the mixture of northfire, saltwater and wood started to spread around Lordsport.

"Smells like... defeat," one of the Ironborn said, realizing what had happened.

"What can we do now?" another asked, worried.

"Nothin'. There's nothin' we can do. We're done for."

Sergeant Torrhen gazed upon the scene in front of him, and glared at the pier as if it had greatly insulted his honor.

Perhaps it had, in some way or another.

Either way, he glared at it, and at the Ironborn that had believed they would be able to prevent him and his Breachers – first in and last out, all of them fine riflemen and not shabby at all when it came down to bayonets and a charge – from putting a foot on the pier. Those Ironborn had rapidly learned that they had made a grave mistake, courtesy of the Bolters on the HMS _Greatsword_ 's deck, although much to their misfortune, it was the last lesson they would be able to receive, as proved by the blood that now covered a good part of the pier.

Casting his eyes away, he looked at his men and women, all of them with their weapons ready, packs to their backs and grim eyes.

"You know the orders, people. If they don't fight, leave them alone – if they fight, then we shoot back," Sergeant Torrhen told them, and they all nodded as the plank was finally lowered, thus allowing them passage onto land.

As they walked across the town, they noted many things. First of all, that Lordsport was not all that different from the many coastal towns they had been to: the pervading smell of fish, whether fresh or rotten, was everywhere; fishing nets abandoned to the wind and the elements appeared in this street or the other; the buildings were not too big, and with few windows... if it were not for the large castle on the distance and the threadbare black banners with yellow krakens that hung from several places, any of them could have sworn they were in the North.

The second was the absolute lack of anything of green color. The Iron Islands were famous for their diminished surface of arable land and the lack of anything that deserved to be called 'forest', but one thing was to know about it and another to see it. Many would wonder how in the Seven Hells they actually managed to have a standing fleet at all, when they had not enough wood to even repair what they had.

The third, it was less that they noted it than that it noted them.

"WHAT IS DEAD..."

The Breachers turned immediately towards the source of the shout and, upon seeing six men running towards them with threatening attitude, chose to shoot before they could get any closer.

"Rest in pieces!" Hilde, one of the best shooters in the group, shouted at the now dead and dying Drowned Men – for that was what they were, at least if going by the fact they wore robes and had algae on their hair and carried large wooden cudgels with them – and the others turned to look at her. "What? I heard someone say it at Oxcross. I thought it felt appropiate."

The group laughed aloud, and the Sergeant smirked.

"Whatever is dead, it lies dead," another soldier shared, drawing another chuckle from his partners.

"Very well, people. Less talk, more moving. Sooner we secure this, sooner we get out of here."

 _To the Castellan of Pyke Castle,_

 _In first place, should you gaze from any of the towers in that castle of yours out to the sea, you will notice that our ships are now close enough to be seen at plain sight. You may believe yourself to be safe, but my guns have enough of a reach to strike it with each and every cannonball in our arsenal and make what happened to the Red Keep a footnote._

 _In second place, you may have also noticed that the banners for Houses Stark, Mormont and several others from across the North have been risen in place of those of House Greyjoy. You may actually need a Myrish glass for that, but the summary is, Lordsport is ours, and soon so will be every town and port in this island._

 _In third place, you might have also noticed that each and every watchtower your so-called King built to protect Lordsport has been destroyed, and also we have taken all the cannons that were stolen from our merchantmen. We have also freed every thrall that lived in Lordsport and put an end to any kind of resistance that may have existed – particularly that of Aeron Greyjoy's most fanatic followers – and this without suffering any casualties._

 _In order to put an end to this struggle, here is our first_ _ **and only**_ _offer._

 _You have until the next dawn to open your gates, surrender your weapons, return any captive you may still have, surrender the castle and island of Pyke to us and send messages to every other Iron Island to follow your example. Should you decide to reject these terms, we will take said surrender tomorrow from the rubble that may remain from our bombardment._

 _These terms are not negotiable. No amount of begging, threatening or cajoling will make us change our terms. Any attempt at blackmailing us with the lives of our countrymen will only be answered with suffering on your part._

 _Choose wisely, or choose death._

 _Signed_

 _Lady Lyanna Mormont_

 _Captain of the HNMS_ Old Bear _and Commander of the Second Northern Sunset Fleet_


End file.
